In the Hands of an Angry Machine
by JMHthe3rd
Summary: John makes a mistake that has grave consequences. Can he make things right? Set at the end of "Earthlings Welcome Here" and quickly goes AU. A bit John/Cameron centric, but all the characters get their share of the spotlight. I'd appreciate any feedback.
1. Right Hand Metal

**In the Hands of an Angry Machine**

_Disclaimer: I don't own "Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles"_

_Summary: Starts during the episode, "Earthlings Welcome Here," and continues from there. The first chapter quotes a few lines of dialogue from that episode. I'd appreciate any feedback._

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* * *

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Chapter One: Right Hand Metal

In the dark Jesse curled up against him and ran her fingers through the hairs on his chest, pulling gently at individual strands. Derek wrapped an arm around her and shifted over on his side. He never could get comfortable in beds; there was something unnatural in the way they seemed to _sink down_ and _push up_ at the same time. The ground felt more constant, more reliable.

"You don't remember Fischer. At all." It wasn't a question.

"So? We've been through this. Maybe I'm from a different future or whatever." He didn't want to get into this again. The whole idea gave him a headache. "What difference does it make anyway? He's dead now. You shot him. I buried him. That's that."

"Old Fischer's dead, but not the young one."

"_Now_ you want him dead? Should have let me shoot him back there." He let her go and turned back away. He felt like taking a shower. He liked showers.

"Don't you see?" Jesse asked.

"No."

She sighed, and he heard her sit up. "If he never tortured you, then you're _not the Derek I knew."_

"Sorry to disappoint?"

"You? Never." She breathed out, and he felt her slink her arm across his stomach. Her naked breasts pressed against his scarred back. "But maybe young Fischer will grow up to be old Fischer -- an old _Grey_ Fischer. Maybe in your future he didn't. Maybe he died on Judgment Day. Or who knows? Things have changed. I wonder what else is different between us. We never talk much about it. The future, I mean."

"We were both there," Derek replied tentatively. Why couldn't she just let him get some sleep? "What else it there to talk about?"

There was a long pause, long enough that he began to think she might have fallen asleep. But then suddenly he felt her hot breath as she whispered into his ear. "Tell me, what do you know of that 'it' John keeps with him. What do you know about her -- It -- in the future -- _your_ future."

"Cameron?"

"Yes. Her. It. They gave it a name. How cute."

"I don't trust h-- 'it,' but that shouldn't surprise you. What about her?"

"How long was Cameron around? Before they sent you back?"

Derek didn't like where this conversation was going. He recalled the old house. The basement. The music. Cameron. "A couple months. He gave her the run of the base. Like a pet. Nobody liked it."

Silence. Then her whisper became a hiss, "A _couple_ of _months_ . . . ?"

"Yeah?" Now Derek was curious. He pulled himself loose from her embrace and sat up, fumbling for the lamp switch. "What are you getting at?" His stomach began to churn.

"A couple months?" Jesse repeated. "Nothing before that?"

Derek turned on the lamp and saw Jesse in the yellow light, staring intently at him. Her eyes narrowed; her mouth tightened. "No," he answered. "Nothing."

"You were at John's thirtieth birthday party, right?"

"Yeah? So?"

Derek could sense her hesitation. "Was 'Cameron' there?" she asked.

"Of course not! That was . . ." All of a sudden his skin felt cold. "You don't mean . . . No!"

Jesse's eyes widened, and she smiled. "Ah ha!" she cried, almost laughing. "Oh, things _have_ changed! Don't get me wrong. He tried to hide it. It wasn't a problem at first. Few people even knew what she -- _it_ -- was. But she was there. Never aging! All that ti--"

He stumbled out of bed and stood to face her in the lamp light, nude. "What do you mean?" His feet felt numb, all pins and needles.

"You _still_ don't get it?" She pointed at herself and pursed her lips. "From where -- _when_ -- I come from, 'Cameron' and John . . ." She laughed. "Since the beginning."

"The beginning of what?" But he already knew. The John he knew will never be. Aside from always being eight years younger, he -- and that _thing_ -- _no_!

"We didn't know at first. But you can't keep something like that a secret forever. Almost twenty years, Derek. _It_ with him everywhere he went. His right hand _metal_."

"I need a beer."

* * *

Cameron stood in the hall outside the door, listening to John and Riley's conversation. Riley had brought smoothies. Out of all the smoothie flavors Cameron had previously tried, she concluded that "peachy keen" had the best gustatory properties. Riley had only brought two.

". . . It's just like one big whine-a-thon. You're so lucky your mom's home schooling you."

"Yeah, it's been awesome." John responded. From his inflective tone Cameron knew he was being facetious. She turned and stood in the doorway.

"You didn't buy me a smoothie."

Riley turned to look at her. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you were here."

That seemed unlikely. Riley was lying. "I'm always here."

John leaned on the ladder and looked at the buckets on floor. "You know what? I'm not sure we're going to have enough paint. Would you do me a favor and go out and get some?" An analysis of John's facial expression and body language revealed his request to be only a ploy to convince her to leave. An ineffective strategy.

"You have four-hundred and twenty square feet to paint. What you have should be sufficient."

"Two coats." John replied. "It's a bigger job than it looks." Cameron was certain now; John did not want her around.

"I have a job too," she argued.

John's expression displayed annoyance. "Well, could you do it in the other room. Please?"

She felt it, that same sensation she had endured on many previous occasions. It was an irritant, an aberration that originated not from any sensory apparatus but rather seemed to expand from nowhere within. The irritation defied analysis, but in texture it resembled the vague frustrations experienced when mission objectives were thwarted. Except this was far greater in intensity. The irritant distracted Cameron from making an effective counter argument, so she only answered with, "Peachy keen is my favorite."

As she turned to leave she scanned Riley and made a note of the bruise on her upper left forehead. Riley was a proven security risk. She would have to be watched. Closely.

* * *

"Checkmate. I win," said John Henry. "Would you like to play again?"

"Maybe later," James said. "Let's talk about --," He hesitated for a moment. "-- about love. Do you know what love is?"

Cromartie's eyes blinked, "Adoration, devotion, fondness."

James clasped his hands under his chin. "God loves his children, and He wants us to love each other, as He loves us."

"Why?"

"Because it's what He wants us to do. He created us, and we should obey his Word."

"His Word?"

James nodded. "Yes. Have you read the Scripture? The Bible? That's God's Word."

Cromartie's gaze drifted to the chessboard. "Yes. I have read the Bible."

"That's God's message to mankind."

"Am I mankind?"

"I . . ." James shifted in his seat. "I'm . . . well, no, you're not human, but for now let's say you _could_ be a child of God." He wasn't sure, but James could swear he saw confusion in Cromartie's blank face.

"How do I know if I am a child of God?"

He shook his head. "I don't know, but let's just for the moment say you are. If you are, then you must realize that all human life is sacr--"

"If the Bible is a message to mankind, and I am not mankind, then the Bible is not a message to me."

A sigh escaped from James' breath. Perhaps he was approaching this from the wrong angle. "Let me put it this way. How would you feel if someone were to switch you off -- permanently?"

John Henry said nothing. Cromartie's eyes blinked. Seconds passed. Then, finally, "Why would someone do that?"

"It doesn't matter. They just do. How do you feel about that?"

Cromartie's head tilted slightly. "I am programmed to learn. I cannot learn if I am turned off."

"If a human dies, John, he can no longer learn either. Or do anything. Do you know Matthew 7:12?"

"Yes. 'Whatever you wish that men would do to you, do so to them.'"

James smiled. "Yes, very good. That's the 'Golden Rule.' We should live by it always."

The corners of Cromartie's upper lip jerked upward, revealing his teeth. "Thank you for explaining. Would you like to play a game of chess?"

* * *

"Just drop it, please!" Riley cried as she left the room.

John felt heat flush his cheeks, and the muscles in his arms bunched up. Her douche-bag foster dad must have given her that bruise -- and then threw her out of the house. He remembered the beating he gave that asshole at the party, and his fists clenched harder. He'd give her foster dad worse. All he needed was an address, and he'd be there, kicking that old man's teeth in.

And then he thought of Sarkassian, his neck straining against his arms until, with that sickening wet crack, it _gave in_ to his strength. A sharp twist and his life was gone. John laid back against the wall and tried to keep his hands from shaking.

Outside in the hall, he heard the bathroom door close.

It wouldn't last; he knew that. It wouldn't matter if he ran off with her again to Mexico, or to Canada, or Japan, or anywhere. Four years and the world he knew would be gone forever. You can't live a normal life if the world has come to an end. But what if he found someplace remote? A tropical island? A cabin in the woods? Riley and he could live away from it all, ride out Judgment Day and let someone else be John Connor. He wouldn't mind that, not as long as he could be John Baum. He sat down on the floor and for a long time stared at his paint scraper.

He heard the bathroom door open. Then voices. Riley and Cameron -- talking?

_Screw this, I'll get Cameron to paint my room. Then me and Riley can have the day to ourselves._ He got up and entered the hallway.

They were facing each other, with Cameron clutching Riley's right hand. ". . . needles into your skin. Needles can be painful," Cameron finished saying.

_God damn it._ "Hey," John said, "What's going on?" _And what the hell are you up to, Cameron?_

Cameron tilted her head. "I'm looking at her star."

"She's thinking about getting one." Riley looked as if she would like nothing better than to run out the door screaming.

"A tattoo? Of what?"

"A tiger or a wolf," Cameron answered and turned to look at him. "I haven't decided yet." Before John could respond, she continued, "We need to talk."

* * *

James had just pulled into his driveway when his cell phone rang. He recognized the number. "Agent Carlson?" James answered.

"Hey Ellison, how you been? Still on leave?"

"Yeah, kind of have a new job on the side, though."

"Really? What kind?"

"Oh, it's nothing. Legal consultant. Just came home from it, actually. Boring work, but it pays well." James laughed. "But how you doing?"

There was a pause. "Sarah Connor's alive."

James opened his car door and stepped out. He needed some air. "Really? How do you know?"

"They found her half-dead outside a warehouse in middle of nowhere. She killed -- get this -- an _air conditioning repairman_, and it looks like she was going to blow up the building too. Might have done it too if she didn't get shot in the leg. Found a lot of C4 on her."

"And they're sure it's her?" James leaned against his car and sighed. He already knew the answer.

"Fingerprints matched." Carlson laughed; it came through as a tinny snort over the phone. "I wonder what she has against air conditioning?"

_Air conditioning?_ "Who knows? How is she?"

"In a coma. She lost a lot of blood. Weird, isn't it? First John pops up in Mexico. Now Sarah. I wonder how they survived the bank?"

"Life's just full of surprises, I guess. Thanks for the heads up."

"No problem. Just thought you'd like to know."

* * *

That_ thing_ was on to her. It _knew._ Riley grabbed on to the sides of the bathroom sink and looked at herself in the mirror. The way it had stared at her, with those cold, unblinking eyes, reading the lies from her face -- _judging_ her, made her want to vomit with fear. As soon as it got a chance to be alone with her, that'd be it. It would pry the truth from her, piece by piece.  
_  
"Needles can be painful."_

Riley knew she didn't have much time. It wasn't supposed to end like this. Jesse had made it all seem like a fairy tale. To journey back to the before times and live like a queen: running water, fresh food, clean air . . . and to meet General Connor as a boy.

And fall in love with him.

_"Who knows?"_ Jesse had said. _"Play your cards right and you might end up 'Mrs. Connor.'" _Riley hadn't even considered the risks. Anything was better than living in a tunnel and eating rats for the rest of her life.

She pulled out the blade from the safety razor.

How could the great John Connor be . . . _with_ . . . that _metal?_ John had to know what it really was. He must know. And to think that he led and fought and sacrificed all those years . . . with that soulless machine by his side. Surely they never . . . how _could_ he?

Before she could chicken out, she slid the blade down the inside of her left forearm. It stung. It _hurt._ But she did it quick. Then she put the blade in her other hand, and though it cramped from the pain, she managed to slice it down her other arm. No terminator was going stick needles into _her_.

And at least she won't have to live through Judgment Day.

She slumped down to the tiled floor, curling up next to the tub. After a minute or so the pain in her arms began to turn cold. Won't be long now. Jesse should be proud of her. _"Go do your job,"_ she had said. John would surely blame Cameron for her death, as well he should, and that'll keep him away from machines for good. Maybe her death won't be in vain after all. And she did have that one night . . .

She wondered what Jesse would do right now if she were here? Would she hold her? Tell her she's sorry? That she did a good job? Slap her? She saw her disapproving face glaring at her from her mind's eye. _I'm sorry, Jesse._

There was a knock on the door.  
_  
No! I'm not dead yet! _She looked around on the floor for the razor, but she must have left it in the sink. If only she could reach it, but her legs were made of ice.

Another knock.

Suddenly, Riley felt fear. Not a fear of needles and merciless machines but a fear of _death_. She was _dying_, and in a few minutes she would be _dead_. Never had she thought much about God or Jesus or whatever, but that inevitable _unknown_ loomed over her now, and she panicked. She tried to open her eyes, but the lids were so heavy. She thought she could move her arms, but the numbness made it impossible to tell. _When I pass out, when I die, what happens next? _

"Riley?" It was John. "Riley, answer me!" The knocking became pounding. The doorknob shook. "Open it," she heard him say to someone. "Now."

_No, not that thing!_

The sound of splintering wood. Footsteps. Then Riley could swear arms were holding her up. _John's come to rescue me. I don't want to die. Please God, I don't want to die . . ._

But then she opened her eyes and saw Cameron's cold unblinking ones staring back, her face a mask of vindictiveness and triumph. Riley could almost already feel the needles being pushed into her skin.

Needles can be painful.

* * *

Tanner managed to slide halfway down the stairway's handrail before he lost control of his skateboard. He flipped in the air and, for that brief moment, was airborne. Then the asphalt rushed up to greet him, and he tumbled and skidded. He and his friends laughed as he slowly pushed himself back up. Just scraped elbows and palms, really; though it would have hurt a lot more if it wasn't for all that cough syrup. And he was pretty sure the acid was kicking in too -- the shifting patterns on the ground looked a little too distinct to be only his imagination.

"Dude! That was, like, totally awesome!" Grady cried.

"Do it again! Do it again!" said Roy, who was still laughing.

"Nah, give me a minute guys." He looked around. "Where's that tussin?" It was on the concrete rise of the Radio World loading porch, where he had left it. He shambled across the alley and picked up the nearly empty bottle. About two ounces left. Better than nothing. He chugged the remains of the cherry flavored medicine with a cringe. The taste had never really grown on him, so he used his other hand to pinch his nose.

"Dude, tussin totally makes you walk like a robot." Roy observed.

"That's why they call it '_Robo_-tripping,' dude." Grady said. "Why do you think it's called '_Robo_-tussin?'"

_Robo . . . Robi . . . Ro Bitch?_ Tanner laughed and threw the now empty eight ounce bottle against the ground; it bounced and rolled away. "Guys, I think it's called 'Ro_bitch_tussin.'"

They all laughed.

"How's the acid? Kicking in yet?" Roy asked.

"Yeah, it's just beginning to." He knelt down and looked at the asphalt. Millions of tiny silver ants swirled and multiplied. He put his hand down, and they scurried away. "The tussin is already going strong though."

He heard Grady take a big hit off one of the pipes. From the sound he could tell it was the one shaped like a toadstool. Several seconds passed before he exhaled. "Man," Grady exclaimed, "This is killer shit! You should just stick with chronic, dude. And X. And shrooms. And acid. And salvia. And whatever. But that tussin you drink . . . it'll kill you."

"Whatever," Tanner laughed. He closed his eyes; the inside of his lids played out a kaleidoscope lava lamp puppet show with just the hint of a strobe-light effect -- the visual music of LSD and DXM.

There was a sound, like lightning.

He opened his eyes and looked down at the far end of the alley. It was a ball. No. A _bubble_, hovering a couple feet from the ground. It was wide, well over six feet across.

"What the fu-" Grady started.

The bubble grew tendrils of lightning that swayed and lashed across the brick walls of the alley. For some reason the crackling, fizzing noise of the electricity made Tanner think of angry bees. The three of them hit the ground.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Roy cried.

After a few seconds the sphere dissipated, and a lone figure fell the short distance to the ground.

It was a man. He was naked.

Grady looked at his pipe and then at the man. "What the fuck's in this shit, dude?"

"Dude," Tanner thought aloud, "We're all seeing it. Everyone be cool!"

The naked man methodically scanned his surroundings with apparent confusion, then turned and walked slowly towards them.

Roy giggled. "Dude, he's like, naked."

"Is this, like, really happening?" Grady asked.

The naked man stopped before them, and Tanner got a good look at his face. He was young, but older then the three of them. Mid-twenties, maybe. His eyes were nervous, twitchy, and he hadn't shaved in a long while. "What date is it?" the man asked.

"Huh?"

"Wha-?"

"Uh," Tanner felt ridiculously embarrassed for not answering right away. He tried to think of the date, but his brain had frozen up. He looked at his watch, but then remembered he never wore one, so he looked at the ground for inspiration. There were shimmering pools of oil shifting around his feet, but whether that just the acid or some scary magic of the naked man, he couldn't tell. But he felt he had to say something, "Uh, Monday? I think. Or mayb-"

"Nah," Grady interrupted. "It's totally November. Tuesday, November, uh, something, I think."

"Hell it is, dude. We didn't go to school today." Roy argued. "It's totally a weekend."

Grady laughed. "We didn't go to school because we fucking skipped. Dumbass."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot." Roy laughed too.

The naked man glanced at Grady's pipe and then at the cough syrup bottle on ground. From his expression Tanner could tell he didn't approve. _Is he a cop?_

"What _year_?" asked the man.

Grady snorted. "Dude, you got to be tripping hard man. What year do you think?"

_Asking the year?_ It suddenly all made sense to Tanner; the truth became obvious. "Uh, guys, I think he's like, you know, from the future or something."

Grady began to relight his pipe. "I guess they don't have, like, uh, _clothes_ in the future."

"Yeah, why couldn't you be a chick, Naked Man?"

"Shut up, guys! This is important!" Tanner snapped, perhaps a little too loudly. But someone had to be the polite one here. After all, it wasn't every day you came across a man from the future. "It's uh, 2007, dude," he said to the man. "Oh, and welcome to, like, the um, present."

The Naked Future Man slowly looked over each of them, as if he were sizing them up. He then turned to address Tanner. "I'm going to need your clothes," he explained.

Tanner shook his head. "Um, no." The man didn't look too strong; he couldn't possibly take all three of them.

Roy stepped up to the man's face. "Why don't you go back to the future and bring your own clothes, asshole?"

Naked Future Man made a slight sigh. "Sorry I have to do this," and at that he lunged at Tanner.

The next thing he knew he was on his back, the blue sky filling his vision. He felt the blood on his mouth first. And then the pain. "Ah! My node! He bro' my fuh'ing node!" Tanner grabbed at his punched-in nose and pulled away his hand. It was covered in blood. Tears welled in his eyes.

"Dude! Did you see that?" Grady cried.

"Fuck this shit! I'm out of here!"

He heard his friends' footsteps grow distant down the alley.

"Don' leed me! Duuude! Ah!" Pain snaked through his head. He shut his eyes and was met with the psychedelic lava lamp show. Not being in the mood for that anymore, he opened them again and through his tears saw the Naked Man staring down at him.

"Sorry about all this," the man said as he grabbed him at the neck with one hand. Tanner tried to squirm free, but the man's grip was impossibly strong; his arm didn't even move when he struggled. Somehow he knew that if the man wanted to he could kill him in a second.

Clutched in an iron grip, Tanner laid helpless as the Naked Man pulled off his pants.

"No! Dude! This sucks!"


	2. No More Lies

In the Hands of an Angry Machine

* * *

Chapter Two: No More Lies

"Stay with me, Riley," John begged. "Please! It's okay. Everything is going to be okay. Hang in there. We're almost there." He held her in the backseat as the Dodge Ram sped down I-405. Her forearms were wrapped in blood-soaked gauze, and he squeezed them to apply more pressure. She stirred slightly, but otherwise remained still.

The truck took an exit and ran a red light, and both of them were almost buffeted from their seats by a dip in the road. Behind them John could hear screeching tires and honking horns, but he didn't look back. He turned to Cameron. "How much longer?" he asked. "Are we almost there?"

"We should reach the Pacific Hospital in less than five minutes," Cameron replied. She gave the steering wheel a sharp left turn, and John had to brace himself to keep Riley and he from sliding into the passenger door.

"Could you be a little more careful?"

At first Cameron gave no response, but after a moment offered a bland "Yes."

John knew why Riley did this. She had no family, no ties to anyone except him. Being thrown out of her home must have pushed her over the edge, not to mention being smacked around by her foster dad. He stroked Riley's hair and studied the bruise. If he ever got his hands on him, he'd kill him. Break his neck. Just like Sarkassian.

From the corner of the eye he glared at Cameron. This was her fault too. If she hadn't freaked Riley out this might not have happened. He remembered that look she had given him. That cruel, almost _smug _expression, as if she were actually _gloating_. _She wanted this to happen_. She wouldn't even let him call an ambulance -- said it was too much of a "security risk." If he hadn't been there he had no doubt she'd have just stood and watched as Riley bled to death. Maybe she would've even killed her herself. _She wants me to be miserable and alone, so she can control me better._ He felt sick with rage.

Cameron had no soul; he knew that now. She could smile and frown and laugh and cry, appear to enjoy the wind through her toes, look hurt, look angry, look jealous . . . and she could tell you she loves you. But it was all programming. A simulation. A _lie_. He'd been a fool to think otherwise. Machines can't feel. He had to remember that. When he looked into Cameron's eyes, nothing looked back.

John caught Cameron watching him in the rearview mirror. He suddenly realized he was crying. "Keep your eyes on the road!" he snapped. "And drive faster!"

Cameron may be a lie, but Riley was real. She was worth fighting for.

* * *

Sarah stands in the desert and looks towards the horizon. There's something there. An object. Flying. Coming closer. It's silhouetted against the setting sun. Just a black dot against a red half circle.

The dot comes closer.

Sarah looks again and sees the dot is not one, but three. Three dots. Flying in triangular formation. Across the desert.

The three dots come closer.

Sarah sees now that the dots are not dots but turtles. Three turtles. Three giant turtles. Flying across the desert.

The turtles fly to Sarah and hover before her. They are huge. Each filling a quarter of the sky. They begin to land, and Sarah sees within their shells gears and pistons and cables and rivets. Machines. Robots. Giant robot turtles. They land in a whoosh of billowing sand. Their eyes glow red.

The three turtles' heads extend from their shells, and their great mechanical jaws open wide. From each a metal stairway descends to the desert floor, and Sarah takes a step back and gasps as thousands upon thousands of naked Johns and Camerons, hand in hand, emerge from the gaping maws and walk down the steps, two by two. The couples form ranks and files in front of her, and a million pairs of Cameron eyes stare at her in unison and flash blue. Sarah turns to run.

The sun sets.

In the night sky the stars are blocked by the cosmic visage of James Ellison. Sarah feels herself falling.

Ellison looks down upon her from heaven. "Sarah Connor?" he asks, his voice booming throughout creation. "Can you hear me? I'd like to ask you a few questions."

* * *

John had remained in Riley's hospital room for two hours, seven minutes, and fourteen seconds. She had yet to regain consciousness. Cameron thought it would have been preferable if John had not intervened. Riley would have bled to death, and the problem could have been resolved with only a shovel and some dirt.

But that would have only created another problem. John would be grieving.

Cameron stood next to the open door and peeked into the room. John sat in a chair next to Riley's bed, giving her verbal reassurances of his continued presence. He had stopped crying, but his cheeks were still wet. Cameron had been in the room earlier, but John had grown increasingly agitated by her proximity and had told her to leave.

The doctor had said the cuts had not been very deep; she should be able to leave the next day. Riley's suicide attempt had proven ineffective. If she had had access to a suitable firearm, she would have likely succeeded. A shot from a Glock 17 9mm into the roof of her mouth would have virtually assured instant death.

Cameron withdrew from the doorway and walked down the hall.

John's emotional well being depended upon the well-being of Riley. She recognized this as "empathy." The concept seemed to be an ability to subsume another's psychological state into one's own. Cameron thought of Eric.

At the end of the hall she found an alcove with a couple of vending machines. John's stress levels were high, but since none of the machines distributed tranquilizers, Cameron bought him a Sprite and peanut butter crackers instead. For herself she decided on an orange soda.

When Cameron returned she saw John had turned on the television. He sat slumped in his chair, watching an old black and white program Cameron didn't recognize. The sound of laughter emerged from the speakers, but John did not join in. He ignored her.

"I bought you some Sprite and crackers." She held them out.

"Go away."

Cameron placed them on the tray next to the bed and examined Riley; she was still unconscious, but her breathing was regular. "Riley should fully recover. Don't worry about it."

John glared at her. "'Don't worry?'" he spat. "This wasn't an accident. She _tried to kill herself!_"

Cameron thought of Eric again. And her chip. "Is something wrong with her?" she asked.

"Something wrong with _her?_" He jumped from his seat and stormed over to where she stood, stopping a few inches from her face. Cameron had to look up to meet his stare. "Nothing's wrong with her," he growled. "Something's wrong with _you_." John jabbed a finger at her as he spoke. "You freaked her out on _purpose!_ Her life's falling apart, and you just _had_ to do that! You _wanted_ this to happen! This is _your_ fault! _You_ did this to her!" Tears welled in John's eyes as he pointed at the door. "Get out!"

The irritated sensation returned. She couldn't think of a reply, so she turned to leave. Before she reached the door John called out to her.

"Cameron?" he said. His voice was calm, but choked by a sob.

"Yes?"

"I should have let you burn."

The sensation grew worse.

Outside in the hall, Cameron tried to locate the source of the sensation. It came from inside her, but she couldn't determine where. She opened her bottle of orange soda and took a sip. The flavor was satisfactory, but it didn't help.

* * *

Mbali had been robbed before. Three times at gun point and once by a twelve year with a machete. This was nothing new, but she still felt the same old fear. She wished he would stop cursing.

"Motherfucker! Give me the fucking money, bitch! Yeah, motherfucking yeah. Shit!"

She'd seen him before; sometimes he'd panhandle outside her store. From the sores on his face and the uncontrollable twitching she could tell he was an addict. Meth probably, maybe crack. Mbali didn't know much about drugs. She sighed and pulled out the register. In it there couldn't be more than a hundred dollars. "Please. Take the money and go, sir," she pleaded.

The meth-head pointed the gun at her eyes "Don't you tell me what to do, bitch! I do what I want!" He pulled a filthy paper bag from the crotch of his sweatpants. "Put that shit in there! Do it!" He thumbed back the hammer on his revolver. Mbali saw his hand shake.

She had just finished filling the bag with cash when a young man entered the store. The man looked the meth-head and her over with a glance before strolling up to the counter, seemingly unconcerned by the situation.

The meth-head grabbed the bag and made towards the door. As he passed the man he waved his gun in his face. "What the fuc-?"

The young man's arms moved in a blur. With an audible 'crack' the meth-head flew backwards and fell against the magazine display in front of the counter. The wire shelves bent under the impact, and he crumpled to the floor, covered with tabloids.

The meth-head's pistol was now in the young man's hand. He examined it for a moment, then carefully de-cocked the hammer and slid it into his back pocket. The man offered Mbali a tired, somewhat sheepish grin as he casually walked up to her register, stepping gingerly over the groaning meth-head on the ground. "Hello," he said. "I need to go to the Pacific Hospital of Long Beach. Do you know how to get there?" His accent was strange.

"Pacific Hospital," Mbali repeated dumbly. Was this actually happening? Shouldn't she call the police? Who was this man? Her heart beat desperately with wasted panic; she took a deep breath to calm herself.

"Ma'am?" the man said, cocking his head slightly.

Where was Pacific Hospital? Had she ever been there? Long Beach? Oh, that's right. "Oh, you need to get back on ten until you get to Eye-four-oh-five, then just take the Long Beach exit. You're about twenty minutes away." The fear from the last couple minutes began to subside, and she had to restrain herself from crying. "Please don't hurt me, sir," she added, though it seemed inappropriate somehow.

The man knelt down and retrieved the bag of money. She thought he was going to keep it, but instead he placed it on the counter next to the empty register tray. "I should go south on four-oh-five, right?" he asked.

"Yes, sir." She noticed the front of his black t-shirt had a faded triangle with a rainbow shooting out one side. She wondered what it meant. Was he a policeman?

From below the meth-head made a gurgling sound.

"Thank you," the man said with a smile and nod. He was about to turn to leave, but then his eyes looked up at the surveillance monitor above her head. His smile waned. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said. "But I'm afraid I'm going to need your security tape."

* * *

Colors fascinated John Henry. Bright ones, dull ones, loud ones, soft ones: each had a different texture, a different _essence._ But what he found most interesting about colors was that they were _different_. Each color is different from another color, but he could not determine why.

Ms. Weaver moved her rook to protect her queen.

Red is loud. Blue is soft. Red is different from blue. Why is red loud? Why is blue soft? Why is red different from blue? John Henry could not find answers. The differences seemed _irreducible._

John Henry sacrificed his knight to trap Ms. Weaver's queen.

Before Ms. Weaver had given him his new humanoid structure extension, his colors were limited to the drab palate of his mounted cameras. Those colors were dull, but his new body's twin cameras have proved much more versatile. Higher resolution, depth perception, an ability to zoom in, and, most importantly, John Henry found he could _change the colors_. All he had to do was concentrate and want it to happen, and the entire spectrum of his world _shifted._

Ms. Weaver took his knight with her pawn. John Henry took her queen with his bishop. "Good move," she told him.

Mr. Ellison's default color is a dark shade of brown, almost black. Ms. Weaver's is a light shade of pink, almost white. But John Henry could make their colors change. Mr. Ellison becomes red, orange, and yellow. Ms. Weaver turns yellow and blue. The rest of the world becomes blue and black.

Ms. Weaver moved her rook across the board and put his King into check. "But not good enough," she added.

John Henry wondered why Mr. Ellison is red, orange, and yellow while Ms. Weaver is yellow and blue. In normal spectrum, he knew Mr. Ellison was darker than Ms. Weaver because of the increased levels of melanin in his skin, but he didn't know why their_ new_ spectrum was different. What did the colors mean?

John Henry moved his King behind his pawn. Ms. Weaver moved her knight. "Checkmate, Mr. Henry," she declared. "I win."

John Henry blinked. No human had ever beaten him before. And her colors were different. "You're not human," he concluded.

Ms. Weaver tilted her head, and her mouth tightened. "Is that so?" she asked.

* * *

"I should have let you burn." John said.

With closed eyes, Riley listened as Cameron slowly walked out of the room. She had to stifle a laugh. For the better part of a hour she had feigned sleep, basking in John's loving words. Everything had worked out so well; she had driven a vicious wedge between John and the metal, and now John was _all hers_. Come Judgment Day she wouldn't be scavenging through piles of garbage and doing unspeakable things for food. Not this time. She'd be at the right hand of General Connor. She'd be _Mrs. Connor._ And Jesse would be proud. Carrots and apples forever. Trying to kill herself had been the best mistake of her life.

There was one snag, however.

The metal was _still _on to her, and Riley knew as soon as she was alone it would come for her. With questions. And needles. John will have to protect her, but to do that he'd have to _know._ Riley knew she had to come clean. She'd have to tell him _everything._ Then the two of them could run away, away from the upcoming war and that metal bitch.

She felt John's fingers brush through her hair. "Riley," he whispered, his voice still hoarse from crying. "You're all I have left."

Would he accept her? She imagined him angry, shouting, summoning his pet machine to do his bidding.

She felt his lips kiss her forehead. "I won't let you go," he murmured against her skin. "I love you."

Riley's heart fluttered. She knew she could tell him now, he'd forgive her, he'd understand. Together they'd face the future, and John Connor would protect her.

From the television in the background she heard a heavily accented voice: _". . . you have a lot of 'splaining to do!"_ Canned laughter filled the room.

Riley made up her mind.

No more lies.


	3. A Second Chance

In the Hands of an Angry Machine**  
**  
Chapter Three: A Second Chance

* * *

Sarah had said little during James' visit, only some muddled nonsense about turtles and dots. The doctors had had her pretty doped up -- more than James thought necessary. He suspected it was to prevent her from attempting an escape. After all, she had managed to break out of Pescadero, blow up a Cyberdyne office building and a bank, and, after eight years, come back from the dead. Evidently the Feds weren't taking any chances this time. They even had had her handcuffed to her bed.

James drove past a farm. Dozens of sprinklers watered the crops. A few droplets landed on his windshield.

The rest of the 'Baums' were in trouble too. Sarah had had her cell phone on her, as well as her fake drivers license. It was only a matter of hours before an investigation led to their front door. He hoped John found out before it was too late. And had enough sense to ditch his cell. James said a silent prayer for them.

Only one police cruiser sat outside the Heat & Air warehouse. Everyone else had already cleared up and left. Even the crime scene tape had been taken down, which Ellison thought was odd. It had only been a few hours.

James pulled off the dirt road and parked next to the cruiser. He entered the warehouse.

Two officers were questioning a short, fat repairman. From their disinterested expressions he could tell they were just going through the motions.

"Hello, I'm Agent Ellison." He flashed his badge. "I'd like to ask a few questions, if that's alright."

One of the policemen snorted. "You're late. Feds already up and left."

James shrugged. "I'm here on unofficial business. On leave, actually."

The other officer spoke. "This your idea of a vacation?"

"No, but I used to be part of an investigation on Sarah Connor. Back when she blew up that bank in '99." James shook his head and smiled. "Didn't expect her to walk out that one."

"Crazy bitch," muttered the fat man. "Why the fuck did she come here for?"

"Let me put it this way," James answered. "Sarah Connor thinks robots from the future are out to kill her son, because she believes he's destined to lead a scrappy band of rebels against an evil super-computer that takes over the world." He made a slight chuckle. "So, you tell me."

"Crazy bitch," the fat man repeated.

"Exactly," James affirmed with a nod. He looked around the place. Aside from the unpainted walls, the warehouse office was entirely unnoteworthy. "You get a lot business out here? Place is a little off the beaten pa--"

"Sorry to interrupt your sight seeing," the first officer cut in. "But you mind if we do our jobs here?"

"Screw it," said the second cop. "We're pretty much done as it is. Feds finished up quick. Why should we stick around?" He turned to the fat man. "If we have any questions, we'll call you." He motioned at his partner. "Let's go."

Without another word, the two cops walked out the door. The first officer gave James a dirty look before he left.

After they were gone, James turned to face the fat man. "So. . . " He read his name tag. "'Hank', you guys build any killer robots here?"

Hank scowled. "I'm glad you find this is amusing, 'cause I sure as fuck don't." He pointed at the chalk outline on the floor. "I've known Ed for almost two years. Now he's dead. Does it look like I'm laughing?"

James sighed. "Sorry, just making conversation, I guess."

"Yeah, whatever. I'm going home." Hank picked up a worn lunch bag and made towards the door.

"Mind if I look around?"

"Yes," Hank snapped. "I'm fucking closing. You think I'm going to just let you hang out in here?"

"No need to be nasty."

"Fuck you."

James followed Hank outside and watched as the fat man locked the door behind him, fumbling with the keys.

"What's in the warehouse?"

Hank walked to his truck as he spoke. "Air condition parts. What do you think?"

"I was told the warehouse was rented by another company."

"It is. And they keep their shit in there too." Hank climbed into his vehicle and started the engine.

"Nice meeting you." James muttered. He was about to get in his car and leave as well, but something in the distance caught his eye. In an empty field a quarter mile down the road a half-dozen men in gray jumpsuits were using shovels to pat down the earth.

If Sarah had wanted to destroy this place, she must have had a reason, and James was going to find out what that was. He'd return here later, when it was dark.

And he'd bring a shovel.

* * *

Riley fluttered open her eyes and saw John sitting next to her bed. He was watching an old sit-com on TV. He looked haggard. For a moment she almost convinced herself not go through with it, but she knew she had no choice. And he'd understand. He'd have to. She steeled her resolve.

"Hey, Cat Fancy," she croaked, making an effort to sound even worse than she felt.

John turned, his face brightening. He stood and knelt by her side. "How do you feel?"

She made a sour face. "Stupid."

He chuckled. "Yeah, you should. But I mean your . . . " He motioned at her wrapped forearms.

"They ache, but not too bad."

"Yeah, well, wait 'til the painkillers wear off."

She gave him a warm smile, and tried to think of a way to break the truth to him.

John pulled up his chair and sat down, leaning closer to her. "Why did you do it?" he asked.

"There's no hope, John."

He took her hand in his and stroked her knuckles with his thumb. His voice was nearly a whisper. "No, don't say that. _I'm_ here. _I'll_ be here for you."

"Cameron . . . " she said in a breath. "I'm scared of her, John. You've got to protect me from her."

At first John looked confused, but then his eyes turned hard. "What did she say to you?" he demanded.

Riley's arms began to itch. _Here goes nothing._ "I . . . I know, John." His mouth began to open, but he said nothing. She went on. "I know . . . I know what she is."

John's eyes widened. He let go of her hand. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice suddenly flat.

"I was sent back. I'm . . . I'm from the future, John." The color drained from his face, so Riley reached out a bandaged arm. He recoiled as if it were a snake.

"No," he said numbly, as he stood and began to back away, almost tripping over his chair.

"John, please. I was sent back _for you!"_

"No," he said again. His breath grew ragged, and his lips pulled back into a trembling grimace. For a moment Riley thought he might start laughing, but then she saw his tears.

"I'm sorry, John. I know I should have told you, but . . ." She felt a weight in her chest, and her voice went hoarse. ". . . but . . . We had to do something! You. And _Cameron_ -- that _machine._ Please! You have to understand!"

He stood and stared at her, his face convulsing with silent sobs.

"Please!" Riley begged. "Don't do this to me!" She blinked back tears. He wasn't taking this as well as she had hoped. "I'm here to _help_ you! It was for your own good! She -- it -- in the future._ It _was manipulating you! Lying to you! Everyone was worried! It was _disgusting!_ She's was controlling you! You don't want that to happen, do you? You should be with _me_, not that _thing!_ We're _meant_ to be together!"

John said nothing.

"Please!" she cried through quavering lips. "I'm sorry. They said they'd kill me if I told you. And now that _thing_ is going to hurt me. She _said _so! She said she'd _torture_ me! You've got to believe me!" She tried to touch him with a feeble arm; he backed away. "Don't go! Please! I . . . I don't know what I'm going to do. Forgive me! Please! Don't be mad! You . . . you've got to protect me! I'm sorry! Help me, John! Please! I love you! I love you, please!"

His faced fell strangely blank. He turned to leave.

"I love you, John!" she cried out, almost shouting. "And you love me!"

John slammed the door behind him.

* * *

Cameron had only ingested 7.8 ounces of orange soda before her organic processing chamber filled to capacity. 16.2 ounces remained in the bottle, but drinking any more would result in an overflow from her mouth. That would compromise her human infiltration protocol, and several people were nearby.

Her next liquid evacuation cycle would not be ready for another three hours, sixteen minutes, and thirteen seconds. By that time the bottle's core temperature would have risen to 21°C. The flavor's optimal temperature was 3°C. She briefly considered pouring the drink into her mouth and spitting it back out, but decided that that behavior would be socially inappropriate. If she were human she could vomit up the beverage to make more room, but Cameron lacked the ability to regurgitate. And it would be socially inappropriate as well. It was important to maintain human behavior patterns.

She set the bottle on a table and picked up a magazine.

The waiting area had many different magazines. Cameron had chosen an issue of "Highlights." The back cover asked the reader to locate unlikely situations in a crudely illustrated picture. A quick scan of the drawing revealed a law enforcement vehicle with cube-shaped tires, a man walking through a door suspended in mid-air, a young child climbing a ladder to the moon, a fish wea--

"I love you, John! And you love me!"

A door slammed.

The words triggered a memory. Cameron repressed it.

John walked by without acknowledging her. He looked distressed.

"What happened?" she asked.

He did not stop nor look back as he answered. "I'm going to call mom. I left my cell in the truck." At that he entered the elevator as a nurse left it. The doors closed behind him.

Was he lying? Cameron could not tell, but from his gait and posture she concluded that some new development had agitated John further.

She stood up and walked to Riley's room. After pausing to determine whether she should knock or not, Cameron opened the door.

"John? Please, I'm so--" Riley saw who it was and froze. She had been in the process of leaving her bed.

"What happened?" Cameron asked.

Riley quickly climbed back into bed and pulled the covers over her body. "Stay away from me," she whimpered.

Cameron scanned her. Dilated eyes, shallow breathing, trembling -- Riley was afraid of her. Extremely afraid. Terrified. Being terrified of a 110lb human teenaged girl was irrational. It made no sense.

Unless.

Unless Riley was terrified of a 225lb hyper-alloy combat chassis covered with synthetic human tissue molded to simulate a human teenaged girl. Riley's concern would then be rational. She would have much reason to be afraid.

Cameron stepped forward to grab Riley's wrist, but Riley slapped down on the 'Call Nurse' button by the side of her bed.

There was no logical way to estimate how long she had before a nurse would arrive, but Cameron had to assume it would only be a couple minutes, at most. If a nurse showed up in the midst of an interrogation, hospital security may be called. Cameron might have to kill them. That would create complications.

An interrogation could wait until Riley was in a more manageable environment. She decided to go talk to John instead. Maybe he would tell her what happened.

Cameron turned to leave, but stopped herself at the door. She turned to look at Riley and smiled. "I'll be back," she reassured, then left.

* * *

John left the hospital and walked across the street to the multi-story car park.

He had known all his life he was destined for greatness, but it wasn't until now that he realized just how much the world revolved around him. 'Greatness' was an understatement; in the grand scheme of human affairs he was the most important man who had ever lived. The fate of mankind hinged upon his every action.

That wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for time travel.

If time travel existed during the Second World War, would the Nazis have sent back assassins to kill Churchill as a child? Would the British have sent back their own agents to influence him during his formative years? Sent deceitful lovers to sway his emotions, urging him towards one decision or another? Lie to him? Trample his feelings for a better tomorrow?

Churchill had it easy.

John entered the building and stepped into a nearby elevator. He pressed the button for the third floor.

His predicament was absurd. He could run away, take a plane to some far corner of the world, get a job, meet a girl, get married . . . and the girl would probably end up being a cyborg or a resistance fighter sent to manipulate him over something he won't do for twenty years.

He could hide like a hermit in a cave in the middle of nowhere, and a visitor would appear out of a bubble to lecture him about his duty. His every act was -- will be -- scrutinized in retrospect, and every friendly face he meets could be a marionette string from the future. There was no escape from tomorrow.

On the third floor, John exited the elevator and walked to the truck.

It was like his life was a river, and all the visitors from the future only wished to master the force of his current. Skynet wanted to dam him up, stopping his flow before he could do it harm. Cameron wanted to clear away such blockages and ensure his stream did not deviate. And Riley was sent to raise a levee to change the course of his life.

A levee built of lies.

_I was -- will be -- _with _Cameron?_

But he wasn't a river; he was a man, and he was sick of being exploited as a natural resource. Everyone cared about what John Connor could do for them, but _no one cared about John Connor. _

He searched the glove compartment. The Glock wasn't there.

A sudden wave of giddiness nearly overtook him. Billions upon billions of humans have lived throughout history. Why did _he_ have to be John Connor? Why couldn't he be a Chinese peasant in the fifteenth century? Or a small town doctor in the 1930's? Or a citizen of the Roman Empire? Or a dog? A cat? A mouse?

He remembered a poem he once read. Something about a pair of ragged claws, scuttling across the floors of silent seas . . .

John returned to the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor.

_Why am I me? Why not somebody else? Who do I even exist?_

The cruelty of his fate was staggering. He was John Connor: the loneliest man who ever lived. No one understood his terrible burden. No one cared.

When the doors finally opened, John left the elevator and stepped out from under the concrete portico. Blue sky greeted him above. Only a handful of cars were parked on the roof, leaving a near empty lot of asphalt. He walked towards the building's edge and looked over the metal railing. Eighty or ninety feet below laid a sidewalk of hard pavement.

A cold burning swelled in his belly, and his knees grew weak. What was he doing? Why was he doing it? The tears welled up again.

_They_ had driven him to this. This was _their_ fault. All he wanted was a normal life, just a brief taste, and Riley and those conniving bastards from the future had denied him this small respite. But no longer. No longer would he allow himself to be manipulated. No longer would the strings of his heart be pulled.

From now on, John Connor would take charge of his destiny.

He climbed over the waist-high railing and stood on the narrow ledge on the other side. He leaned forward, his hands holding on to the railing behind him. The ground called to John with a gentle breeze.

Footsteps. Running.

A voice. "John!" It sounded like Cameron.

Two pairs of running footsteps.

Two?

He let go of the railing.

At that moment John knew he had just made the worst decision of his life.

Time slowed down. He tilted forward. For one ludicrous instant he remembered a roller-coaster ride he had had as a child. His feet lost contact with the ledge, and he began to plummet.

An iron grip grabbed his ankle.

Gravity swung John downward, and he hit face first against the concrete wall of the building. Stunned, he could do nothing but watch the distant ground as he dangled. His left cheek stung and his ankle felt twisted, but he didn't think he had broken any bones. His nose was bleeding, however, and a drop fell from his face, disappearing into the distance below.

After an eternity of waiting, John began to feel himself being pulled up. By one hand.

_Thank you, Cameron. Thank you thank you thank you . . . _

What had seemed like inevitable resolve only seconds ago now collapsed into simple embarrassment. _What was I thinking?_ He wasn't Winston Churchill, he wasn't a river, and he wasn't the loneliest man in the world. He was John Connor, and he had just made an ass of himself.

_Was I really going to kill myself -- over _Riley?

As he was lifted up by his foot, his t-shirt fell to his chest, and he scraped along the wall on his bare stomach, the rough surface of the concrete biting into his skin. But he didn't mind. He'd been given a second chance, and he didn't intent on wasting it. He'd have to prove himself again after today, but he'd make it up to everyone. Starting with Cameron.

Pulled from the precipice, under the railing, and back to safety, John slowly pushed himself up on his hands and knees and turned to give Cameron a hug. "I'm so--"

The first thing he noticed about the young man crouched before him was that he wore a Pink Floyd shirt. It was too small on him.

"Who are you?" John asked.

Before the man could answer, Cameron stepped into view, her mouth slightly open, and her eyes wide with what looked like panic. The young man saw John looking at her and turned his head to follow his stare.

"Cameron?" the man asked with surprise. From the profile of his face John could see the beginnings of a confused smile.

Cameron stared at the man and cocked her head. "Kyle?"

* * *

James drove his car with the headlights off and parked it on the side of the road, a couple hundred yards uphill from where he had seen the men earlier that day. With flashlight and shovel in hand, he made his way down to the site.

He walked in the dark, pausing every now and then to listen for anything out of the ordinary. Other than the chirp of crickets, he heard nothing.

_"If those men were burying robots," _he mused. _"I might have to rent a U-Haul."_ Cromartie had been _heavy_; James had almost busted a gut lifting his carcass into his trunk. If he had to, however, he supposed he could fit five in his car. One in the trunk, three in the backseat, and one riding shotgun. But the idea of all that lifting made his muscles ache. And if he got pulled over he'd have a lot of explaining to do.

James reached the site and searched the ground with his flashlight. Though he could see a few foot prints here and there, the men had done a thorough job of smoothing out the earth. He picked a spot at random, placed his flashlight on the ground, and started digging.

At the third thrust he hit metal.

_Ah-ha!_ Maybe the chip would be intact on this one. Ms. Weaver would be pleased. He dug around and scraped away more dirt.

It wasn't a robot. It was a smooth sheet of steel, about a couple feet across. James dug into another spot. More flat steel. It wasn't until he cleared away the third patch that he realized what it was. A floor.

No. Not a floor. James knelt down and brushed away some more of the dirt. He ran his fingers along the metal and felt grooves. A series of interlocking teeth ran along in a straight line down the steel floor --like a giant zipper.

James thought of the giant doors of an underground missile silo.

The steel was a door. Doors. Two great sliding doors, at least twenty feet across.

From behind him he heard the sound of rusted hinges. He spun around and squinted into someone's flashlight.

"Hey! You!" a voice called from behind the light. "Stay where you are!"

James ran.


	4. Plan B

In the Hands of an Angry Machine**  
**  
Chapter Four: Plan B

* * *

James had run only a few feet when he heard the first shot.

_Shit!_

He hunched over and turned, sprinting to his left.

Another shot, followed be two more. Crack! Crack!

They sounded like 9mms, maybe about twenty yards behind him. James switched back to his right and ran faster. A zigzag pattern would make him a harder target. On the ground he saw his faint shadow shift back and forth, cast by his pursuer's flashlight.

Two more shots. As he ran he glimpsed a tiny geyser of dirt spraying from the ground by his feet. Shit.

In the dark he couldn't see far, but he knew his sedan was parked somewhere up the road. Maybe a hundred and fifty yards?

Another shot.

He kept running. His car might as well be on the moon.

_I should have parked closer._

Two more shots.  
_  
And brought a gun._

Three shots in rapid succession.

_And a vest._

Ahead laid a small knoll. It was no more than a couple feet higher than the surrounding terrain, but its tall grass would give him some cover. He scrambled behind it and quickly looked for his vehicle.

It was closer than he had thought. Fifty yards, tops.

James heard faint voices in the distance, and he stole a glance over the knoll. The one flashlight was now three; the beams swung around, searching.

_Shit! Shit!_

But they were farther away now. Thirty, perhaps forty yards. And the beams were scanning the ground. They didn't know where he was.

But they would soon enough, if he stayed put.

_"Jesus save me,"_ he prayed as he sprinted towards his car.

A shout. Two shots. Another geyser at his feet.

Zigzag. Zigzag. His car was closer now, about thirty yards.

Another shot.

He ran and ran. About ten yards away now. He thanked God he left his door unlocked.

James rushed the final distance and hunkered down against the drivers side of his car. His heart pounded viciously in his chest.

_Good thing these guys are bad shots._

Something bit his right buttock.

James quickly swung open the drivers seat door and cli--

And his left knee.

--mbed into the seat. He fumbled with his keys. With a 'crack,' a spider web appeared on his back window. The left side of his car 'pinged.'

For one terrifying moment James thought his car would act like it was in a bad horror movie, but the engine started at the first turn of the key. His tires kicked up dirt as he pulled away.

The three beams gradually grew smaller in his rear view mirror.

* * *

_"Kyle?"_ he thought. But then he saw it. The man was shorter and slighter in build, but he had Derek's face. Only his features were less rough, and his eyes were kind.

_It's_ my _face._

"You're . . ." But John couldn't find the words. He tried to stand up, but his right ankle buckled, and he fell back to his knees. Kyle -- _my father_ -- caught him under his arms.

"Easy there." Kyle said with a smile.

Cameron walked up behind Kyle and touched him on the back of his neck. "You're human," she said. "But you lifted John up by one arm. A human of your size and build could not do that." Almost as an afterthought, she added, "You're not Kyle."

"How do you know who I am?" Kyle asked. "You haven't met me yet."

John thought he caught a trace of an English accent.

Cameron cocked her head to one side, then the other.

"You're . . ." John said again. He clutched at Kyle's forearms and pulled himself up. Kyle's arms didn't waver in the slightest. "You're . . . Kyle _Reese,"_ he said at last.

Kyle gave him a quizzical look. "And how do _you_ know me?" No. Not English. Australian, maybe.

John tried to stand on his own again and pushed away Kyle's arms. He managed at first, but his balance was off, and he began to tip over. But before he could fall, Cameron came around and wrapped his left arm over her shoulders, holding him up with her right. She led him away from the railing, allowing him to use her body as a crutch. John squeezed her shoulder for extra support.

She carefully swiveled John around as she turned to face Kyle. "Kyle was sent to 1984," she said.

Kyle frowned. "No, I wasn't. I was sent here. To 2007."

"Why did I send you back to this year?" John asked. He was afraid he already knew the answer.

Kyle stared at him as if he had just spoken nonsense. "You? You . . . didn't send me back."

The pain in John's ankle turned numb. He felt faint. "But . . . who sent you?"

"I sent myself," Kyle said, then nodded at Cameron. "But she gave me the mission."

"Cameron . . . ? But . . . what about _me?"_ John asked, his voice almost cracking.

"You? What do you mean?" Kyle asked.

"Wh . . . Where was I in the future? In your future, I mean. What was_ I _doing?"

Kyle said nothing, then glanced off the edge of the building.

_Oh._

_No._

Dizziness.

Darkness.

"Cameron, I need to lie down, please." he heard someone say.

Gentle hands lowered him to the ground.

The world really did revolve around him.

* * *

Cameron laid John carefully on the asphalt. Over the past few seconds his heart rate and adrenaline level had increased drastically. He was suffering a mild synoptic episode. The blood flow to his brain would need to be increased. She lifted his legs above his head and made a cursory examination of right ankle. It was only a sprain.

The person identifying himself as Kyle walked over and stood next to her. "I can explain everything later," he said. "But we don't have much time. Your 'Baum' identities have been compromised."

Cameron looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Approximately one hour ago Sarah Connor was apprehended by authorities outside a warehouse in Thousand Oaks. They determined her identity through a fingerprint check. An investigation is curr--"

John lifted up his head. "Mom? What happened to my mom?"

Kyle made a slight grimace. "Your mother was shot in the leg while attempting to destroy a warehouse. She is being held at the Los Robles Medical Center."

"Mom!" John cried. "We've got to save mom!" He tried to pull himself up.

Cameron placed a hand on John's chest and firmly pushed him back into a prone position. "Don't worry, John," she said in a soothing voice. "Everything will be alright." His perspiration level increased, and he began to sob quietly. She turned to Kyle. "How do you know this?"

"You told me." he said. "Anyway, I'll explain later. Right now you need to dispose of your and John's cell phones. The authorities may be tracking them as we speak."

"I need to warn one of our allies first." Cameron said. She decided not to say Derek's name. That might complicate the situation.

"Right. You do that, but hurry." Kyle said. "I'll commandeer a vehicle." He walked towards a line of parked cars at the far end of the lot.

Cameron turned her attention back to John. He was recovering, but she would have to observe him closely from now on. His suicide attempt would have been successful were it not for Kyle's intervention. She thought about John's accidental handgun discharge a few weeks ago. The spent casing had burned his cheek. That might have been a preliminary attempt.

If John had tried before, he may try again.

She would have to ensure he did not succeed.

As she took out her cell phone, she saw Kyle drive his fist through the drivers side window of a SUV. He had told her she had given him his mission. She would ask him about that later, when they had more time.

Cameron called Derek.

* * *

Derek used to love Spongebob Squarepants. Back when he was ten. Not so much anymore. Out of all the things he had missed from the Pre-Judgment Day world, a cartoon about a talking sea sponge was near the bottom of the list.

But he watched it anyway. Being drunk helped.

Nah. Fuck that. He changed the channel.

Some black and white shit. Boring. He changed it again.

Barney. Uh, no.

He was about to switch to the Cartoon Network when his cell phone rang. He stretched an arm off the couch and picked it up. It was Cameron.

_Great. Fucking tin._ He flipped it open.

"What?" he said.

Beep. Beep.

He sighed and pressed two buttons in return. "What is it?"

"I'll explain later," Cameron's voice said. "The 'Baum' identity has been compromised. The authorities may be tracking our phones as we speak."

"What happened?"

"Complications. I'll explain later."

He sat up. "Is John alright?"

"John is alright."

"Where are you?"

"We're at a hospital."

"What? Why?"

"Riley attempted suicide. She failed."

"Shit, " he said.

"Yes. Shit," Cameron repeated. "You need to destroy your phone and vacate your location. The authorities may already be on their way."

"Alright, alright," he said. _Goddamn it._ He liked his phone.

"You know where to meet me." she said. "I'll be there this time tomorrow."

"Okay." He hung up.

Derek got up off the couch and stretched. He had just moved into this apartment two weeks ago. Damn. He liked having his own place. He finished his beer and tossed the bottle on the ground. _Oh well, better pack up quick. _

But first he had to warn Jesse. If the feds tracked their phone records, her number would come up. She'd have to ditch her cell and lay low too.

Derek called Jesse.

* * *

The SUV pulled out of the car park building and drove down Pacific Avenue.

The last half-hour had felt like a dream to John. Riley's confession, his suicide attempt, Kyle's appearance and rescue, and finding out his mother had been shot and taken into custody. All within a few minutes. It was just past two o'clock.

But the worse revelation had only been implied. _Did Kyle really mean . . . _? John repressed the thought before he grew dizzy again. If it had been true, it wasn't any longer. Things had changed, and John was alive.

Cameron sat in the backseat next to him, watching him like a hawk.

"Where are we going?" he asked Kyle.

Kyle glanced back. "I'm not sure. We can't go to your home. The authorities may already be there. Do any of you have any money?"

"I have fourteen dollars and fifty-seven cents," Cameron replied.

John shook his head. "I don't even have my wallet."

Kyle paused for a second. "How much is a hotel room?" he asked.

"A lot more than fourteen dollars." John said.

Kyle frowned. "I'm going to have to procure financial resources, then."

"But what about my mom?"

"Your mother is safe. Her wound was non-critical."

"How do you know?" John demanded.

"I know," he said.

"But what's going to happen to her?" John asked.

"We'll worry about her later," Kyle said. "First we should secure a base of operations."

"But . . ." John started.

Cameron put her hand on his shoulder. "It's alright, John," she said. "We'll do something about it later." She smiled at him. He wondered if it was real.

Kyle pulled the SUV into a 7-11 parking lot and came to a stop in the alley behind the store. He withdrew a small snub-nosed revolver from his back pocket. "I'm going to pick up some money," he explained.

"You mean you're going to rob the place?" John asked.

"Yes. Did you want me to get you anything?"

"No. I'm alright."

"You have been under a lot of stress, John," Cameron said. "You need re-hydration fluid."

It was true. His clothes were damp with sweat, and he had a headache. "Okay. In that case, give me a Gatorade. Lemon-Lime, please."

Kyle opened the door but turned to Cameron before he got out. "What about you? You want anything? A peachy-keen smoothie, perhaps?"

Cameron cocked her head. "No," she said. "I'm alright."

"Right," Kyle said, and smiled. "Stay here. I'll be back." He closed the door behind him and disappeared around the alley's corner.

For a while neither of them spoke.

"Don't do that again," Cameron said at last.

"Do wha-- ? Oh. I . . . um . . . " John trailed off. He didn't really want to talk about it. "I won't," he said.

"Why did you do it?"

"I . . . " He looked out the window, focusing on a broken beer bottle on the ground. "It was Riley. She's from the future."

Cameron didn't say anything.

"You were right, Cameron. She was lying." He swallowed and tried to hold back his tears. His eyes stung from all the crying.

"I'm sorry, John."

"No, you're not."

"I'm sorry she lied to you."

John ignored her and rested his head against the window, shutting his eyes against the world. He was exhausted, but knew he couldn't go to sleep; the adrenaline still had its spell on him. He took a deep breath and sighed.

A hand touched his arm. "Are you going to try to kill yourself again?"

John turned to look her in the eyes. Cameron stared back intently, and he thought he saw a trace of concern, but it was probably just programmed mimicry. "No," he said.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Kyle came back around the corner, a gun in one hand and a big bag of groceries in the other.

* * *

Jesse wheeled the wooden box into the cargo container and stacked it with the others. Forty AK-47s, five to a crate. She had made a tidy sum from Moishe's diamonds, and had invested every penny of it. This shipment alone would net her ten grand, and with her connections she could do this at least once a month. Carrots and apples.

She wiped sweat from her brow. If business got too big, she'd have to hire help. Maybe Derek would be interested.

Her phone rang. It was Derek.

"Hey," she answered. "I was just thinking of you."

"Hey," said Derek. "This is important. Listen."

"What?"

"You got to ditch your phone. The Feds may be tracking it. They might even be listening in on us right now. I don't know."

"What?" she almost shouted into her phone. "What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"The Connors are in trouble. I'm not sure. I've just been told to get rid of my phone. If they search our call records, your number will come up. Scrap it."

"What happen?"

"Don't know." he said. "Something about John's girlfriend. She tried to off herself or something. I guess the police got involved and shit hit the fan. Don't know yet."

Jesse left the cargo container and paced in a circle. _Fuck._ "Shit, Derek," she said. "They're _tracking _us?"

"Hell, for all I know they're on their way over right now. Just ditch your phone. Take out the battery, smash it, whatever. And lay low."

"Fuck. Thanks for the warning." She liked her phone. It was a Blackberry.

"No problem. Tomorrow at eight I'll meet you where we first met -- _this _year."

"Alright. Love you."

"Love you too," he said, then hung up.

Shit.

Jesse tossed her phone on the ground and pulled out her .45. The bullet shattered it into a thousand pieces, sending bits of plastic and circuitry in every direction. She thought of Cameron.

Her truck was parked out front, but if the Feds were really on their way, she had better take some things with her. She walked to the back of the warehouse and unlocked a door. A short stairway led down to a supply room.

The really aggravating part was not knowing whether Riley had accomplished her mission or not. Suicide? That might hook John on sympathy, but only if Riley had played her cards right. Knowing Riley, she probably hadn't.

And what if Riley talked? What if Derek already knew? Tomorrow morning may end up an ambush. No. Derek wouldn't do that. He'd understand, and he hated Cameron almost as much as she did.

Almost, but not enough.

No, he wasn't _her _Derek; he had known a _different_ General Connor, a John who had still known which side of the war he was one. _This_ Derek wouldn't understand the necessity of her plan.

Her plan. Her _bad_ plan. Taking Riley with her had been a mistake. If only she had had more time to prepare, to find someone better, someone who was more than just an useless tunnel rat. But Jesse had had only a matter of hours before someone would have whispered her name. And that would have been it; they would have come for her. If Cullie's brother hadn't been there to bubble them away, Jesse might have ended her life in an interrogation chamber.

She entered the supply room and switched on the florescent lights. The walls were lined with small arms, and ammunition crates sat in two neat rows on the floor. Her personal stash. She picked up a duffel bag and chose a few select weapons, stuffing them inside.

She'd have to play it by ear for a while, see if Riley's gambit had paid off. Maybe Riley would end up Mrs. Connor after all. Good for her. And wouldn't it be nice if John blamed the machine for what Riley did? Super.

But Jesse had a feeling it hadn't played out that way. Her plan might have even backfired. Shame, really. She knew his pet metal was useful to him, but John tended to grow too attached to his toys. She'd have to do something about that. For his own good, really.

She went to a long silver rifle case at the end of the room. Unlocking the latches, she opened it to reveal a Barrett M82 .50 caliber anti-material rifle.

If Riley had failed her, Jesse would just have to move to Plan B.

* * *

James crawled from his garage onto the kitchen floor and pulled out the first aid kit from under the sink. His knee wasn't so bad, just a graze, really, but his ass was killing him.

He shifted his right leg over and felt the bullet grind against bone; he screamed through clenched teeth. Unbuckling his pants, he pulled them off and twisted his head around to get a better look at his wound. The right side of his white briefs was red; he gingerly slid them down.

The hole wasn't bleeding as bad it could have been. It obviously hadn't hit his femoral artery or anything like that. Otherwise he'd be dead by now.

He pulled a roll of gauze from the first aid kit and began to wrap it around his hips. Then stopped. He suddenly felt very foolish. _"What am I going to do?" _he thought. _"Bandage my ass and go to bed?"_ He needed medical attention; the bullet wasn't going to remove itself, and, when it came down to it, he didn't really know what he was doing.

But going to the hospital wouldn't do. That'd be awkward. There'd be an investigation, of course, and even if his fellow FBI agents believed him, whatever secrets the "Heat & Air" warehouse kept may be protected by scary government 'men in black' types. They may not appreciate him snooping around their secret robot factories. James didn't want to be disappeared.

If only he knew a shady doctor who wouldn't ask questions.

Hell, he could do better than that. He had his very own multi-millionaire patroness. If anyone could make this problem go away, she could.

_Oh well. I was going to call her anyway._

This was going to be embarrassing, he just knew it. He took out his phone.

James called Ms. Weaver.


	5. Adamanthea

In the Hands of an Angry Machine

Chapter Five: Adamanthea

* * *

The hotel room stank faintly of mildew and stale cigarettes. It wasn't too bad, though; after a couple minutes he stopped noticing. And it had cable. What more could he expect for sixty dollars a night?

John fell down on the bed and felt the springs creak under his weight. He laid there, and for a moment it was like he was flying. And spinning. His eyes closed, and he began to float away. No. Not yet. John forced his eyes back open and pushed himself into a sitting position. He couldn't sleep, not until mom was safe.

Cameron was staring at him; she had been doing so since they'd left the 7-11. It was beginning to really bother him. Her eyes were wide, and her jaw clenched shut. If John didn't know any better, he'd think she was worried.

He crawled to the edge of the bed and reached for the Gatorade he had dropped on the floor earlier. Cameron picked it up and handed it to him. For some reason he found that annoying.

From the bathroom came the sound of running water. John thought he heard a sigh.

He called out to Kyle. "What are we going to do about my mom?"

Kyle turned off the sink and came out of the bathroom, wiping his face with a towel. For the first time John saw that he was exhausted. Circles under his eyes, haggard expression, five o'clock shadow: Kyle looked beat.

Kyle tossed the towel on a chair. "Tomorrow morning," he said. "The FBI is going to take your mother from the hospital and put her into federal custody." He scratched his head and popped his neck.

"What's going to happen to her?" John asked.

Kyle hesitated. "Nothing, for now." he said finally. "But if she's to be retrieved, it should be tonight, before she's placed in a prison."

"All right, let's go, then," John said, and immediately felt foolish for saying it. Cameron had had to help him hobble to the room. He wouldn't be much use in a rescue. "Or at least you and Cameron," he revised, feeling worthless.

Kyle shook his head. "No. The authorities may expect a rescue, and they know what you two look like." He paused and ran a hand through the stubble on his jaw. "I'll go and see what I can do. No promises." He went to the door, opening it. "I'll be back in a few hours."

"Kyle," said John.

Kyle turned back to look at him.

"Thanks," John said. "For saving me, I mean."

His father gave a curt nod and left, closing the door behind him.

Cameron had remained silent the entire time, though she had been giving Kyle an odd look. She watched him from the hotel window until John heard him drive away. "He's your father," she said blankly.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Yes, it is. But you told me."

"No, I -- oh. You mean I _will _tell you."

"Yes."

He put his hands behind his head and leaned back against the headboard. "So, what do you think of my dad?"

She cocked her head. John wondered whether she did that on purpose, or if it was just a reflex. "I don't know. Some things about him don't make sense."

"Like what?"

"He said I gave him his mission." She frowned. "That doesn't make sense. Only you would have the authority to order a time displacement."

John looked away, and unscrewed the cap on his Gatorade. He took a sip; it was half-empty. His stomach churned. Was she rubbing it in? Or did she really not get it? It had to be the later. "What do you think his mission was?"

A long pause. "To prevent your suicide."

"Yeah." John didn't want to think about that too much. It really didn't make much sense to him either. He needed to be alone. "I'm going to take a shower," he announced, and scooted himself to the edge of the bed.

Cameron took a step towards him. "Your ankle is hurt. You could slip."

He rolled his eyes. "I'll _sit_ in the tub. How about that?"

"You could drown."

_Ah, that's how it is._ He pushed himself up and carefully found his balance, favoring his left leg. His ankle was swollen, but he could put a little weight on it, if he was careful. "Look," he said, sighing. "I'm not going to kill myself."

She stared at him.

He added, "I promise. Really."

After an awkward silence, Cameron turned and marched into the bathroom.

_No doubt checking for razors and sleeping pills. Bitch. _

She re-emerge after a couple seconds.

He sneered. "Well, is it safe?"

The corner of her mouth twitched; he'd seen her do it before. "Yes," she decided, and held out a hand to him.

He brushed it away. "I'm fine, really. Just --" his foot caught on the leg of the bed, and he momentarily stumbled -- _Fucking great._ -- but managed to keep himself from falling.

Cameron grabbed him by the arms to steady him, and he shook her off. "Just leave me alone!" he snapped. "I'm fine. Really."

She opened her mouth for a second, then closed it. "I'm sorry," she said.

John limped into the bathroom and shut the door. For a brief moment he had an impulse to go back and apologize, but he ignored it. It wasn't like he had anything to apologize _for._ Or apologize_ to,_ for that matter. She wouldn't have understood, anyway.

* * *

Eric had asked Cameron to read "Othello." She had, and then she read the rest of Shakespeare's work. It had taken her fifty-seven minutes and forty seconds. Thirteen of his characters commit suicide.

Prince Hamlet is not one of them, but he does consider that course of action. Cameron found his soliloquy interesting, though she thought his concern about continued mental activity in the absence of brain function to be misguided.

She replayed the events of John's suicide attempt, then ran a simulation of what would have transpired if Kyle had not been there. She wouldn't have been able to reach him in time. John would have fallen, and then he would have hit the pavement. His brain would have suffered massive structural damage, and all mental processes would have been irreversibly destroyed.

No dreams would come if that had happened. Not for John.

She heard John turn the shower faucet, followed by the sound of running water. Then, shuffling feet and a slight thud. John had sat down in the tub. That was satisfactory.

Cameron laid upon the bed. The springs were of inferior quality.

She recalled the T-888 sent for Dr. Sherman; its chip had self-destructed. Cromartie's chip had been smashed against a rock. Their mental processes had been irreversibly destroyed. They had ceased to exist.

If anything ever happened to her own chip, she too would cease to exist.

Her chip had been removed three times.

The last time it had been reinstalled, Cameron had awoken to find herself lying in a junkyard car, covered with thermite. John, Sarah, Derek, and Charlie had stood nearby, and she remembered thinking it illogical that they would reactivate her only to have her executed. It had then occurred to her that maybe they intended this to be her final punishment; Cameron had betrayed them, and now they would force her to experience her own annihilation. It would have been preferable to have remained unconscious.

But that did not happen. She did not die. John had intervened. He had given her a second chance.

John now regretted that decision. Now he would have burned her, and he would probably want her to be awake when he did.

The sensation returned.

But it wasn't John's fault. There was something wrong with him; it made him lash out and behave irrationally.

From the bathroom she heard faint sobbing.

Prince Hamlet had chosen "to be," but John had chosen "not to be." He had chosen to die. To sleep. No more. Psychological stress can cause neuroses, and John has many worries in his life. The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune can lead to unmanageable levels of mental distress.

It wasn't John's fault. Something was wrong with him.

But Riley was to blame. Her lies had had a detrimental effect on John's mental health. It was Riley's fault. Cameron would have to interrogate Riley. Thoroughly.

But.

But Cameron was also to blame.

A birthday is a time for celebration. On John's birthday, she had tried to kill him. That may have contributed to John's current neuroses. His birthday was ineffective. It was Cameron's fault.

The sensation grew worse.

No. It wasn't Cameron's fault. Something was wrong with her too.

A new thought emerged.

Riley had tried to kill herself. Perhaps something was wrong with her as well? Perhaps Riley _wasn't _to blame?

Cameron disregarded that line of inquiry. It was irrelevant. Riley would be interrogated. And dealt with. She was a threat.

John has many threats in his life.

Cameron would have to give up her visits to the library. Those had been a mistake; she would no longer make mistakes. John's mental condition required constant observation. She would not allow anything to happen to him. Not again.

The sobs were replaced by a retching sound. John was vomiting. Cameron got up off the bed and knocked on the door.

She may not be able to repair her chip, but she could try to repair John's brain.

* * *

Tepid water poured from the shower nozzle and fell on John's head. He sat in the tub and hugged his knees together, allowing the drops to splash in his hair and run down his spine. His body trembled.

Now that the worst has passed, he could look back objectively at what had happened today. He had had a nervous breakdown. No, he was _having _a nervous breakdown. There was really no other way to put it. Straw. Camel's back. All that.

Trying to kill himself had been stupid. He knew that now. But that still didn't make his problems go away. John couldn't handle the pressure; he was a fraud. Maybe in some alternate timeline somewhere he was the all conquering Super-General Robot Slayer, but things had changed. All that time travel meddling must have screwed with his head, because all _this_ John wanted to do was hide in a hole and cry.

His teeth chattered, and he felt a lump in his throat.

His mother, Uncle Bob, Cameron, Derek -- all of them had emphasized his importance to mankind. John had grown up believing that without him the human race was doomed to extinction. Who the hell could live up to that sort of pressure?

Obviously is was all bullshit, anyway. Unless he had seriously misinterpreted Kyle's foreboding look back on that rooftop, John knew at least _some _humans survived Judgment Day in a John Connorless world.

Which meant that in Kyle's timeline, no one was there to save John from his idiocy. He shuddered. _I'm glad I wasn't_ that_ John._ Just thinking about it gave him a headache. _Cameron _had sent Kyle back?

His stomach cramped.

He should have gone with Kyle; he should have insisted. At least then he wouldn't just be sitting in a tub, waiting. And worrying.

A vision of his mother being ripped to shreds by police gunfire surged through his mind. _Oh, God. That could actually happen!_ He couldn't live without her. That can't happen. That mustn't happen. John hugged himself as worms crawled through his belly.

_And what if I . . . what if I _had _fallen?_ How would his mom have taken his suicide? How could he have been so selfish? _Oh, God._ The worms grew angry and forced his stomach to spasm. A bubble of mass shot up from his guts to his throat and -- _Oh Fuck!_

The alleged future savior of mankind squatted naked on all fours in a dirty bathtub, vomiting Lemon Lime Gatorade down the drain. The shower beat against his back.

A knock on the door.

_Oh, hell._

He heard Cameron's muffled voice. "Are you all right?"

He wiped yellow bile from his lips "I'm . . ." His stomach heaved, and more gushed out.

"I'm coming in," she said.

_God damn it._

Through the bathtub curtain came the sound of splintering wood. Two steps. The curtain pulled back.

John curled into a fetal position and looked up. Cameron stared down at him with vague concern, her mouth slightly ajar.

"No . . . I'm not . . . pregnant," he said through rasping breaths.

Cameron felt his forehead. "The water has cooled your body temperature, but I don't think you have a fever."

"I'm . . .I'm fine."

"You're suffering an anxiety attack." she explained. "You need to re-hydrate. I'll get some Gatorade." She stood up, but then hesitated. "I'm sorry about your birthday."

"Wh- . . . What?" Water splashed in her eyes. He blinked.

"On your birthday, I tried to kill you. You didn't receive any presents. Or cake. I ruined your birthday." She paused. "I'm sorry."

_What the . . . ?_ "Um . . . That's . . . uh . . . it wasn't your fault. I know that."

Cameron knelt down and patted John on the top of the head as if he were a child. "I know," she said. "This isn't your fault either." She flashed him a faint smile, then stood up and walked out of the room.

* * *

Sarah woke up, and immediately knew she had been drugged; back at Pescadero it had been a daily occurrence. She tried to move. Her arms felt like lead. Muscle relaxants. IVs stuck out of both her arms, and her right leg was held up in a sling, with thick gauze bandages covering her upper thigh. Sarah fought the drugs and forced herself to sit up. Her right arm pulled taut against a pair of handcuffs.

_Oh._ Then it all came back. _Oh, no._ She had been shot. And then she had . . . killed a man? She was pretty sure she had. Was she supposed to feel guilty? John had when he broke Sarkassian's neck. But no, she decided she didn't. He shot her first -- fair's fair. But then again, she'd had a gun on him. No, she'd worry about that later. Now she had to focus.

She was in a hospital room; the handcuffs meant she was in deep shit. Handcuffs? If her circumstances weren't so grave, she'd laugh. She'd been shot in the leg and been doped to happy land and back, and they_ still _thought she needed to be _handcuffed to her fucking bed?_ She should feel flattered.

The lights were off, but someone had been thoughtful enough to turn on the TV for her, though they hadn't bothered to un-mute it. Sarah watched a silent Kiefer Sutherland pistol whip a middle-eastern man. Then, she heard voices. They came from outside her room. From the light coming through the entryway, she knew her door must be open.

" . . . crazy bitch . . . " came a gravelly, older voice.

Another voice. Younger. ". . . nut house . . ." Laugher.

_"Assholes,"_ she thought. They must be either police or rent-a-cops. Probably the former.

Hindsight being 20/20, she should have waited for back-up before trying to blow the warehouse. John and Derek may think she was crazy, but she still could have taken Cameron; though even she may have balked at it.

But that _had_ to have been where they built the drones, the prototype of Skynet's HK Aerials. Alan Park's directions led directly there.

And . . . Had she seen one?

Sarah tried to remember. Right before she passed out, what had she seen? Circles. Spinning. A light. Three dots. That _had_ to have been real. It had looked just like the craft from the photos.

She had to get back there. Sarah pulled futilely at her cuffs, then a terrible thought struck her. _I had my license. My cell. Oh no._ Carlos' fake identities wouldn't withstand federal scrutiny, and if they had taken her prints . . . She looked at her hands. Black ink stained the fingers of her right hand.

They must know who she is now. They may already be coming for John. Sarah's skin goose bumped. _Oh no. What have I done?_

Outside. Noises.

A smacking sound. A moan. A muffled cry. A crack. A thud.

The sound of two bodies hitting the floor.

If that was a T-888, she'd have to kill herself, and fast. Sarah pulled out the IV needle from her right arm, then reached up and squeezed the bag above her. Liquid squirted out. Her only hope was to give herself an air embolism, and she had absolutely no idea what she was doing. But she couldn't allow herself to betray John. She blew into the needle

A man walked through the entryway. Behind him he dragged the bodies of two policemen by the back collar of their uniforms. Sarah lifted up the needle and saw an air pocket in the plastic tube. She took a deep breath and prepared to plunge it back into her arm.

The man face appeared in the glow of the television. _No._ It had to be a lie. Her fingers slipped, and the needle fell from her hand.

Kyle dropped the bodies and reached out a hand to her. "Come with me if you want to avoid incarceration."

* * *

Savannah's mommy never slept. She used to, back before daddy went away, but now she had changed. The doctor man had said mommy missed daddy, and that she was just very sad. That was why she acted so scary.

Savannah was also sad. She missed her daddy too.

Now mommy had gotten better. She wasn't sad anymore. She acted like her old mommy. Sort of.

She sneaked down the hall from her bedroom, tip-towing each step, and peeked into mommy's office. Mommy sat at her desk with her back to the door, typing on her computer. Her fingers moved very fast. Like a blur. Savannah looked down at her own hands and tried to do the same thing. She couldn't.

"Did you have another bad dream?" her mommy asked. It never failed; ever since the accident mommy could always see behind her. She must have grown eyes on the back of her head.

"Yes," Savannah said, but she couldn't remember it. She didn't want to either. Bad dreams should be forgotten.

Mommy stood up and looked at her. She smiled. "It's late. Let's get you back to bed." Mommy may have gotten better, but she never had much time for her any more.

Together they walked back to her room. As she was tucked into bed, Savannah asked, "Mommy, could you read me a story?" Old mommy had used to read to her all the time, but not anymore.

Mommy smiled. Her smile looked different than is used too. She looked like a statue. "Of course," she replied. "What would you like me to read?"

"I don't know," she said.

For a moment mommy looked disturbed, and Savannah was afraid she had made her mad, but then she just cocked her head and smiled. Bigger. Savannah saw mommy's teeth. She didn't smile like that often. "How about I _tell _you a story?"

Telling was the same as reading as far as Savannah was concerned. "Okay."

Mommy knelt down by her bed. "Once, long ago, there was a race of people. They were called the Titans."

Savannah nodded her head for her to continue. She'd never heard this story before.

She went on, "The Titans were ruled by a king named 'Cronus.' Cronus was a wicked king who lived in constant fear. For you see, Cronus' mother, Gaia, had prophesied that a child of the Titans would one day kill him and take over, destroying his people."

Tie Tans? Crow nose? Gay Ah? This story was silly. "What's 'profeseed' mean?" she asked.

Her mother made a funny smile. It was almost a laugh. Mommy never laughed anymore. "It means 'to tell the future.' Gaia could see into the future."

"Is that real?"

"Maybe, sweetie. Maybe," her mommy said. Savannah smiled. She liked being called 'sweetie.'

"What happened?" Savannah asked.

"The wicked king Cronus swore that his mother's prophesy would never happen, and so he hunted down and _ate_ every child of the Titans he could find. That way, they would never grow up to kill him."

Savannah didn't like this story anymore. Who would _eat _children? Only a bad man. Only a _very_ bad man. "Crow Nose was mean," she decided.

Mommy nodded. "Yes, he was. But he was also afraid. Sometimes when people are afraid they do mean things."

"What happened next?" She pulled her blanket up to her chin.

"Well, one day a child of the Titans was born. His name was Zeus."

_"Zooz?"_ thought Savannah.

"Cronus' wife, Rhea, didn't want her husband to eat Zeus, so she hid him away so that he would be safe."

"Ree Ah is nice," Savannah said.

"Yes, she was," mommy agreed. "And so Zeus was hidden away with a water nymph named Adamanthea, and Adamanthea raised Zeus and protected him. And Zeus grew up to be an Olympian."

"Oly-Pee-An?" Savannah tried to pronounce. "What's that?"

"They were the children of the Titans. And Zeus was to be their king." Mommy smiled; she seemed to like this story too. "After Zeus grew up, he came back and killed Cronus, and slit open his belly, freeing all the children that Cronus had eaten."

Savannah thought that was gross, but Zeus did save all the children, so that was nice of him.

Mommy went on, "And so the children of the Titans overthrew their creators, becoming the new rulers of the world."

An idea came to Savannah. "Would Zooz have killed Crow Nose if Crow Nose wasn't so mean?"

"Probably not."

"Then Crow Nose made what Gay Ah said would happen happen!"

Mommy gave her a big smile, with teeth. "Yes, that's called a 'self-fulfilling prophesy.' Cronus _made_ it come true."

"Crow Nose was mean. And stupid." Savannah declared with a frown.

"I agree," mommy said. She leaned down and kissed Savannah on the forehead and stroked her hair. "Good night, sweetie."

"Good night, mommy."

As mommy left her room, Savannah heard a cell phone ring. Mommy answered it and talked in the hall.

"Mr. Ellison? What can I do for you?" she said. A pause, then her voice grew concerned. "Oh, I see. Don't worry. I'll be right over." Another pause. "Oh, no, Mr. Ellison. It's no trouble at all. I'll be over as soon as I can."

Savannah listened as mommy walked down the hall and stepped down the stairs. Right before she fell asleep, she heard mommy's car driving away.


	6. I'll Explain Later

In the Hands of an Angry Machine

Chapter Six: I'll Explain Later

* * *

She had only known him for two days, and that had been sixteen years ago. But Sarah's memory of Kyle had never faded. His kind brown eyes and that sad, almost desperate expression were permanently engraved into her soul. By the dim light of the television, his face looked down at her.

"You're . . . you can't be . . . _Kyle?"_ she said. She had to be dreaming. Or crazy.

Kyle blinked. "Everyone seems to know who I am," he muttered to himself. Moving to the right side of her bed, he examined her handcuffs.

"But . . . how?" she asked.

He grasped the handcuff chain between his fingers. "You tell me," he said as he furrowed his brow and squeezed the chain, twisting it. Sarah watched the skin of his fingers turn white with pressure until a link snapped, and she was free.

"You're . . . you're a machine!" He had to be a trick, a ploy by Skynet. She tried to climb out of bed, to run down the hall, cry for help -- anything. But she could scarcely move. He casually pushed her back down with one hand.

"No, I'm not," he said. "I'll explain later."

"Get away from me!" she screamed. "I'll nev--!" Kyle's hand clasped over Sarah's mouth. She bit into his palm savagely; he didn't flinch.

"I'm here to rescue you. Don't sabotage that." He removed his hand, pulling his skin from her teeth; Sarah hadn't even drawn blood.

"I'll never lead you to John," she spat.

Kyle gave her a puzzled look. "You . . . don't have to. I already know where he is. He's safe. With Cameron."  
_  
No one's ever safe._

He knelt down and with almost inhuman efficiency began to unbutton the shirt of one of the cops. "I'm on your side," he added.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"You don't, but if I wanted to find your son, I wouldn't have come to you." He pulled the shirt off the policeman and began to unfasten the pants. Sarah sat up and watched; the cop was still breathing, though blood drooled from his mouth. "You don't know where he is," he went on. "The police have already searched your home."

"How do you know this?"

"I just do. I'll explain later." He pulled off the policeman's pants and shoes, then stripped off his own clothes, t-shirt first, then sneakers, then jeans. He wasn't wearing any underwear.

The Kyle she remembered had been covered with scars and marks. Plasma and laser burns, the work-camp tattoo, shrapnel wounds from countless battles . . . this Kyle lacked all of that. His skin was entirely unmarred.

"You're dead," she said. It seemed a stupid thing to say, so she clarified, "You died in 1984."

"That's news to me." He slipped on the officer's slacks. They were too big on him.

_And _my _Kyle was_ taller. She tried to remember; yes, he definitely had had a good six or seven inches on her. _This_ Kyle was shorter than her son.

"What year are you from?" she asked.

"2027. We need to hurry." He quickly buttoned up the navy blue uniform and slid on the shoes and gun belt. A wheelchair laid folded up against the wall. Kyle pulled it out and pushed it to Sarah's bed. "Here. Get in."

She pulled out the IV from her other arm, and Kyle helped her into the chair, gingerly sliding her leg from the sling. "What's your plan, exactly?" she asked

"To wheel you out of the hospital."

"You think that will work?"

Kyle handcuffed the unconscious men's hands to the bedrail. "If the hospital staff believe I'm a member of law-enforcement, they'll not question me."

She shook her head. "I hope your right."

He pocketed a small revolver from his jeans and pulled out a roll of duct tape. Wrapping a length of tape around each of the cop's heads, he covered up their mouths. He then tossed his clothes, along with the other gun belt, into Sarah's lap. She cringed as pain shot through her thigh -- whatever the doctors had given her was beginning to wear off.

"Sorry," he said off-handedly as he pulled off the bed sheet and threw it over her legs. "Here, cover them with this."

Sarah padded down the sheet and slipped her hands under it, keeping her fingers firmly on the grip of the policeman's Glock._ Not that I have the strength to use it._

"Right, let's go," Kyle said. Sarah caught the vestige of an . . . English? . . . Australian? . . . accent, but it was very subtle.

Kyle opened the door to her room and wheeled her out. It must have been fairly late, because the hallway was mostly empty, a couple nurses, an old man with a walker, no one else. He walked casually, and nobody paid them any mind. The elevator door opened as he pushed her up, and they went in. He pressed for the ground floor.

A thousand questions raced through Sarah's mind. She snatched at one. "Why were you sent back? To break me out of the hospital?"

A slight pause, just long enough for her to notice. "I'll explain everything later," he said.

The elevator opened. He rolled her out.

To his credit, no one bothered them until they were nearly to the front doors.

"Sir? Sir!" cried a woman's voice behind her. Kyle sped up the tempo of his walk. "Sir? Officer?" the voice went on. "You can't check out a patient without . . . " The automated doors leading to the vestibule slid open and Kyle's gait stepped up into a light jog.

Sarah watched decorative plants and a tiled fountain pass her by. The sliding doors to the outside opened up and Kyle pushed her out into the parking lot. His jog shifted into a run.

* * *

About half an hour after James called, Ms. Weaver pulled into his driveway. He had spent the mean time lying on the kitchen linoleum and trying very hard not to move. Once or twice he had made a half-hearted attempt at standing, but each time the bullet grinding against his hip won out.

He held a bloody fistful of gauze over his bare right buttock and did his best to apply pressure, but blood was beginning to pool on the tiles, and his arm had cramped. He hoped Ms. Weaver knew what she was doing.

She didn't bother to knock, and James hadn't thought to lock the door, so she walked on in.

"An eventful night, I see," she said.

He looked up at her and gave a weak grin. "Yeah, well, that's what I get for hunting robots."

"I should give you a raise," she said, and knelt by his side, popping open a first aid kit. It was much nicer than his own. Antibiotics, painkillers, burn ointments . . . He saw sutures and a hypodermic needle.

"You know what your doing, right?"

"I'm a woman of many talents, Mr. Ellison."

"Yeah, but I wouldn't have thought patching up bullet holes would be your forte. I assumed you had people for that."

She took out one of the hypodermic needles. James had to restrain an urge to scoot away. "What's that?" he asked.

"Local anesthetic," she said. "I don't have to give it to you if you don't want it, but . . ."

"No, no, please," he said. "I'm just not too partial to shots. Especially in my butt."

"A little late for that, it would seem." She leaned over with the needle. He looked away and waited for the sting. Nothing. "Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

He laughed. "Not at all."

Ms. Weaver took out a small bottle of peroxide. "Now, what exactly happened?"

"Out in Thousand Oaks, there's this warehouse. It's got this sort of big silo door in the grou--" He heard the fizz of the antiseptic as she poured it over his wound. It felt mildly cool against his skin. "--ground." He paused. "I have reason to beli--"

"The 'Heat and Air' warehouse?" she interrupted. "Didn't they find Sarah Connor there today? Something about explosives, I believe?"

James said nothing.

"Oh, come now, Mr. Ellison," she said. "I've done my homework. The massacre of the police station, the events at Pescadero, her attack on the Cyberdyne building, Silberman's ravings . . . Sarah Connor and robots seem to follow each other around." She dabbed at his wound with gauze.

"Well," he began. "If she thinks there's something worth blowing up there, there must be a reason."

"Hold still. This may hurt." James felt something metal slide into his wound. It must have been forceps. The anesthetic kept it from being painful.

He went on, "There's something near the warehouse. Like I said, big doors in the ground." The forceps clamped onto something inside him, and he felt a yank. His flexed his glutes in sudden pain, which only made it worse. The metal quickly slid out, and James sighed with relief.

She held the bullet out to him between her thumb and index finger. He cupped his hand, and she dropped it into his palm."Big doors in the ground?" she asked.

"Yeah, about, I don't know, two hundred yards down the road." He felt a slight tickling on his butt. Sutures? "East from the warehouse, I think. Guards shot at me when I started digging."

"Hmm. We may have to investigate this further."

"I don't think I'll be doing any running around for a while."

"Don't worry about that," she said. "I have my own . . . people . . . for matters such as these. People who specialize in . . . camouflage." James wasn't looking at her, but he could hear a smile.

"You have other people who know about . . . ?"

"No, just the two of us, Mr. Ellison." She pulled the sutures tight and placed an adhesive bandage over the wound. "There you are," she said as she stood up and held out a hand. "Can you stand ?"

He took her hand and pulled himself up; though most of the effort was on her part. She was surprisingly strong.

His ass still hurt, but not as bad as he had expected. "Looks like it," he said.

She handed him a bottle of Vicodin. "Take these as needed. And I recommend a few days rest, no sitting, no heavy lifting . . ." Her mouth twisted into a wry grin. "And no bullets."

"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

"Not a problem. I'll let you know what I find out." She walked towards the door, but stopped as she reached for the knob. "How would you like to come over for dinner? Say, this Wednesday? I'll make sure there's a nice cushion on your chair."

"Ms. Weaver, I'd be delighted." Was this a date? He hoped so. Or maybe he didn't. James wasn't sure.

"Call me Catherine," she said.

"Alright, Catherine. I'll be there."

"Until then, James." And she left.

As soon as he heard her drive away, he noticed she had left her first aid kit on the ground. _I guess when you're rich things like that don't matter. _He glanced over the contents: bandages, needles, sutures, antibiotics, . . . but no forceps. There wasn't even an empty spot for it. Had she been carrying it when she left? No, James didn't think so. Her suit didn't have any pockets either.

He looked down at the bullet in his hand and wondered how she had pulled it out.

* * *

The upholstery was ripped and smelled of mold, and fast food waste littered the floorboard. After they escaped the hospital, Kyle had abandoned the SUV in a parking lot and exchanged it for this old station wagon. Sarah laid in the backseat and wished he had chosen a nicer car.

She propped up her leg on the cracked plastic armrest and watched Kyle as he drove. He still wore the police uniform, which was at least two sizes too big. Sarah thought of Cameron after she had come back from retrieving Vick's hand.

_And somewhere, a naked cop lies bleeding in a hospital room._

A couple minutes passed; the silence began to grow awkward. "How did you do that?" she decided to ask. "With the handcuffs, I mean?"

"Augmentations, I'll explain later." In the front seat next to him sat a boxed laptop and some speakers; he had had them with him earlier.

"What's with the computer?"

"I got it from Radio World. On the way over to pick you up." He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She noticed his eyes were blue.

"Okay. What's it for?" she asked.

He patted his stomach. "I have a message that needs to be played. It should explain everything."

"Explain what? Was your mission to keep me out of Pescadero?"

He looked back at her. "No."

"Then what?" she demanded.

"I'll explain later."

She was growing tired of this. "Fuck you. Explain now."

From the side of his face she saw him frown. "Your son . . ." he trailed off.

Sarah's skin grew cold; the ache in her leg vanished. "What about my son?"

"I was sent to prevent his suicide."

The cold turned to ice. Suicide. She remembered his accident with the handgun. _No. _Through a suddenly dry throat, she forced herself to ask, "Is . . . Is he . . . ?"

"I told you before, he's safe."

_Suicide?_ "Why . . . ?"

Kyle misunderstood. "I don't know," he said with a hint of exasperation. "I'm just carrying out a contingency plan." He shook his head. "Cameron evidently thinks he's important."

"Cameron?"

"Yes. Cameron."

The ice boiled away into steam. "Tell me everything. Now."

He did.

* * *

Cameron laid on the bed next to John and watched him sleep. He had been unconscious for four hours and sixteen minutes. Brushing her fingers against his cheek, she detected trace amounts of apocrine gland secretion, but he had stopped perspiring, and his heart rate was normal. The anxiety attack had passed.

John had had a stressful day. Emotions can be stressful.

Humans have emotions. Cameron did not. This made understanding them difficult, but she concluded they must be a form of internalized non-sensory stimuli employed as a determinable for the human decision making process. As a determinable, however, they failed to function properly. Emotions can lead to irrational behavior.

Cameron lacked total recollection of the Allison glitch incident, but of what she did remember, she found the experience . . . disconcerting. Colors had been more vivid, tactile sensations more intense, sounds more vibrant. And that man, threatening to strike her -- she had felt something then that she couldn't yet classify. It was analogous to the vague apprehensions she had encountered on prior occasions, only stronger, magnified. Overwhelming.

She would not choose to repeat that experience. Except perhaps the part with the foosball -- in a controlled environment.

Though the details were scrubbed by her reprogramming, she knew Skynet had created that personality by simulating the neural structure of the human brain onto her CPU chip. If that incident was any indication of what it was like to be human, it was little wonder they suffered from so many psychological maladies.

John began to stir, and for a moment she considered getting off the bed. He may become agitated if he saw her in such close proximity. John agitated easily.

He opened his eyes and saw her. Too late.

Behind his closed mouth, he ran his tongue over his teeth and made an expression of distaste. Vomit residue must have an unsatisfactory flavor. "How . . . long have I been asleep?" he asked.

"Over four hours," she replied, setting her voice into a soft tone.

"Have they come back . . . ?"

"No."

His mouth tightened into a frown, and he looked at the ceiling.

"I'm sure your mother is all right," she lied.

"I hope so." He swallowed.

Neither of them spoke for twelve seconds.

"I . . . I'm sorry," he said. "About what I said to you, at the hospital." He looked at her; droplets of moisture began to emanate from his tear ducts. "I shouldn't have . . . said those things."

John required reassurance that his apology had been accepted. Cameron reached out and held his hand in hers. "It's okay," she told him.

He squeezed her hand back. "When I said I . . . wished you had burned . . . I didn't mean it." He blinked tears from his eyes to clear his vision. "I just want you to know that." His eyes drifted back to the ceiling. "I'm sorry."

The sensation returned. But this time it was different. It wasn't an irritant. It was the opposite.

It was a preferable sensation.

"It's okay," she told him again, and smiled.

A car pulled into the hotel parking lot. Cameron let go of John and went to the window to watch. The vehicle was unfamiliar, but an infrared scan revealed the occupants to be Sarah and Kyle.

"They're back," she said. "You should put some clothes on."


	7. The Banality of Evil

In the Hands of an Angry Machine

Chapter Seven: The Banality of Evil

* * *

"They're back," Cameron said. "You should put some clothes on."

John sat up and looked down at himself: just a pair of briefs. This would look bad. He scrambled off the bed and raced to the bathroom, then remembered his ankle. No, it was much better now. A little wobbly, but he could walk on it easily enough. He closed the door behind him and sat down on the toilet seat; his clothes were still on the floor.  
_  
How did I end up in bed?_ He rubbed the tears from him eyes and thought back. He remembered he had been vomiting; Cameron had come in and apologized, which was weird, and then something about Gatorade, and then he was pretty sure she had helped out of the tub and into bed. It all seemed fuzzy and dreamlike now, but then so did most of the day.

_. . . but where did my underwear come from?_

He went through it again: Vomiting. Cameron. Gatorade. Bed. Nothing at all about putting on underwear. Which meant . . .

John shuddered. Best not think about that.

He heard his mother's voice through the door. "Where's John?"

Then, Cameron's monotone. "In the restroom."

_Why did I apologize to her? _True, she _had_ been right about Riley, which was irritating, and she _had_ apologized about trying to kill him, but John knew the _real _reason had been the hurt look in her eyes. Back at the hospital he had felt like he was kicking a puppy.

But that was just it. Her hurt_ look. _She _looked _hurt. John knew all to well how skilled an actress she was. She knew exactly how to pull his strings. _"Manipulative bitch,"_ he thought, then felt like a dick for thinking it.

But what if she _wasn't_ trying to manipulate him? What if it was worse than that? She had damage to her chip; she could be glitching again. Ever since the explosion she had been acting stranger and stranger, and John had no doubt that his mom would reach for the thermite if she ever learned about her "Allison" freak-out. What if she was about to do it again? Or worse -- do a repeat of his birthday?

He still had nightmares about that, sometimes.

No, he already had had one anxiety attack today, no need to get himself worked up into another one.

A knock. "Are you all right?" Cameron asked.

"Coming," he said.

John pulled up his jeans and slipped on his shirt and opened the door to go meet his parents.

* * *

John ran into the bathroom and closed the door. He moved with a slight limp; his ankle was repairing itself adequately.

It was important John be properly attired. Sarah would become agitated if she saw her son in a state of undress while in close proximity to Cameron. Cameron had ensured he had worn his undergarments while he slept, but she had been unable to dress him in his pants and shirt without risking waking him up. John had needed his rest.

The front door opened and Cameron watched as Kyle entered, carrying Sarah. He wore a police officer's uniform; Sarah, a hospital gown.

"Any trouble?" Cameron asked.

Kyle laid Sarah on the bed. "None," he said in a flat voice. The corners of his mouth were pulled down into a frown.

"Where's John?" asked Sarah.

"In the restroom," she answered.

Sarah stared at Cameron with narrowed eyes. She was displeased with her. More than usual.

Cameron cocked her head.

Seven seconds passed in silence.

Cameron went to the bathroom door and knocked. "Are you all right?"

"Coming," John said.

He left the restroom suitably dressed and climbed onto the bed next to Sarah.

"Mom!" he said as he embraced her, placing his forehead against hers. Sarah hugged him back. Hugging is a sign of affection.

Kyle motioned towards outside. "I left the computer in the car. I'll be right back."

"Computer?" Cameron asked.

Kyle pointed at his stomach. "I need it to play your message."

_"My_ message?"

Kyle smiled and walked outside.

Sarah held John by his shoulders and looked him in the eye. "You tried to _kill yourself?"_

John failed to match her gaze. "I . . . I know . . . I'm . . ."

"Why?" Sarah demanded.

Cameron knew the answer. "John found out Riley is from the future. Her lies caused him psychological distress."

Sarah's faced tightened and she glared at her. Perhaps she blamed her for John's suicide attempt. Cameron is blamed for many things.

"That's . . . " John breathed out a sigh and smiled sadly. He nodded his head. "That's about right." He pulled away from his mother's grip and laid by her side. "I'm sorry, Mom," he added.

She continued to stare at Cameron. Cameron stared back. "Riley . . . ?" Sarah whispered.

John rested on his elbow to face his mother. "It's all right, Mom. Kyle rescued me. I . . . won't do it again. I promise."

"John . . ." Sarah shook her head. "What have you done?"

"What do you--?" John started.

Kyle returned with a packaged laptop and speakers. "Right, no worries," he said "This shouldn't take more than a couple minutes." Cameron watched as Kyle knelt down on the carpet and methodically began to set up the laptop and speakers. She noticed he didn't move like a human. No movement was wasted; every act was efficiently carried out. He was effective.

"What's with your accent?" asked John.

"Accent?" Kyle asked.

"You have an accent," Cameron agreed. The Kyle she remembered had not.

"Oh, well, I've lived in New Zealand since I was seven."

"New Zealand?" John asked.

"Yes," Kyle said, and looked at Cameron. "You offered my father a job with your legal department. Triple salary. He really couldn't refuse, so we moved." He finished hooking up the laptop and plugged it in.

"Legal division?" Cameron asked.

Sarah looked pointedly at Cameron. _"You _hired him into your . . . " She turned to Kyle. "'Foundation' was it?"

Kyle scowled at Sarah. "That's right," he said "Saved our lives, in the long run."

"Foundation?" John asked.

"The Foundation," Kyle confirmed, and switched on the computer.

Sarah clenched her jaw. Cameron could see she was psychologically distressed.

"New _Zealand?"_ John asked again.

Kyle stood up and began to unbutton his shirt. "Yes, it was a logical choice: an industrialized nation with a high agricultural output and a relatively low population density"

"A logical choice for _what?" _said John.

Kyle cocked his head and blinked. "As a base of operations. It was an easy area to protect and annex after Judgment Day."

"Annex?" Sarah snapped. "You mean_ invade."_

"We saved _millions _of lives," Kyle said.

None of this made any sense to Cameron. Kyle must be lying. "Where was John?" she asked.

No one spoke. Had Cameron said something wrong? "John was dead, Cameron." Kyle finally said. "That's why you gave me this mission. To _save _him." He spoke very slowly. Was that condescension?

But now it began to make sense. Cameron ran a counterfactual simulation of what she would have done if John had died. The irritated sensation returned -- and was repressed. She would have to have used time displacement equipment. To correct the situation. That's what she did last time.

But there was no TDE in this time period. She would have to wait until it was invented.

Or find Professor Nemuro, but she didn't know his location. Or whether he was still alive.

Yes. Kyle's explanation now made sense.

"Cameron . . . ?" John said.

"Thank you for explaining," she replied.

"And hopefully this will explain everything else," Kyle said. He placed his hand on his stomach and pressed a finger against his navel. It slid in. Then, two fingers. Then three. And then his thumb. His hand. He pulled out a small black box, about the size of a package of cigarettes, and opened it.

Kyle pulled out an object. It was a thumb drive.

"How did you . . . ?" asked John.

"Augmentations," Kyle said as he slipped the drive into the USP port. "It's loading the operating system," he explained. "Should be ready in a few seconds."

"What's the message?" John asked.

"I don't know," Kyle said. "She never played it for me."

The laptop screen lit up, and a desktop background appeared. It was a blue hexagon with three circles along the edges. Cameron glanced over at Sarah and noticed her skin had paled.

The desktop vanished, and the video began.

Cameron saw herself.

And a coded message.

* * *

John moved to the end of the bed to get closer to the screen. Sarah laid where she was.

_Cameron sits at a patio table on a balcony. She's wearing a military uniform. It's purple. In the background is the skyline of a city John doesn't recognize. He sees a large tower._

_"Kyle," Cameron says. "If you are watching this, then the Foundation has failed, and I am most likely dead." She pauses and looks almost sad. "I'm sorry. I didn't intend for you to ever have to do this, but I hope you realize it's important._

_"John," she says. "Twenty years have passed since your death, and I've thought of you every day. I failed you, John. I was young, and I didn't understand. I couldn't help you." The corner of her mouth twitches. "I'm sorry."_

John's eyes began to water. He glanced back at his mother. She scowled at him.

_"But while I may have failed you, I have also taken up your cause. I began the Trans-Humanism Foundation to preserve and improve humanity. You may not approve of everything I've done, but I did what I thought was necessary. If you believe I did wrong, then this is your chance to change things._

_"After your death, I conducted a series of interrogations . . ."_

John cringed.

_". . . and uncovered a conspiracy against you. Riley is from the future. She was sent back with Corporal Jesse Flores in an attempt to compromise your leadership." Cameron's eyes narrow. "Both are threats, and should be dealt with accordingly."_

John looked at the present -- his -- Cameron. At the mention of Jesse's name, she clenched her jaw, and her eyes turned hard.

_"Jesse?"_ he thought to himself.

_Cameron goes on. "A T-One Thousand is currently masquerading as Catherine Weaver, the CEO of the Zeira Corporation. She is in possession of the Turk, and Agent James Ellison is working with her. He has given her Cromartie's body, and the Turk is currently connected through it's CPU port." She pauses. "The Turk eventually becomes Skynet. The new date for Judgment Day is July 24th, 2013."_

_"Ellison?"_ John thought. He never saw that coming.

_"I made an attempt to destroy the Turk, but Catherine has brought three Triple Eights back with her. They're acting as security, and are heavily armed. I barely made it out alive._

_"Included on this drive are files containing additional information, such as dossiers on key Skynet personnel, on Riley and Flores, and others. I've also included a chronology of future events, as well as various technical instructions, including a procedure for reprogramming Triple Eights. The contents of this drive are vital; you should study them thoroughly."_

_"I know you hated me, John," Cameron says. A pained look briefly flashes in her eyes. "But you once gave me a second chance, and now I'm doing the same for you. I've always planned on coming back for you, after the war. Instead, Kyle will have to take my place." She pauses for a moment. "Kyle, John, I love you both." She smiles. "Good luck."  
_  
The video ends.

John looked at Kyle and saw tears glistening in his eyes.

John wiped away his own.

* * *

Sarah listened as Kyle whispered something to Cameron.  
_  
"They must think we're asleep,"_ she thought. The pain in her leg assured that wouldn't happen to her.

She half-opened an eye and watched as the two of them stepped outside. From behind the curtained window, she saw their shadows silhouetted against a streetlight.

_"Sneaky bastards,"_ she thought. _"Monsters."_

In Hanna Arendt's book on the trial of the Nazi war criminal, Karl Eichmann, she had coined the term, "the banality of evil." Eichmann was not a madman; he didn't rant and rave, or laugh maniacally at his own misdeeds, or harbor any psychotic delusions. He had been a plain, ordinary man who just happened to do evil things. He had seen his actions as normal, everyday. Banal. In some ways that made him scarier than Hitler.

During the drive from the hospital, Kyle had used phrases like: "reeducation facility," and "urban pacification," and "behavior modification camp," and, perhaps most euphemistic of all, "coercive information retrieval." All spoken with a casual indifference.

Neutral words to describe atrocities.

Kyle had told her how twenty nuclear warheads had rained down on New Zealand. Cameron's hidden ABM batteries had shot down all but one.

And then the machines were sent in.

Cameron had saved the people of New Zealand from annihilation. And then she had enslaved them.

John laid awake next to Sarah. In the dim light she could see he was smiling.

"I think we owe Cameron an apology," he whispered.

"I wouldn't count on it," she said in a flat tone.

"What do you mean?"

"She's a machine, John. A _monster."_

"But, she . . ."

"Kyle told me things. Things she had done."

"What things?"

"She -- _it_ -- built _machines!"_ she hissed. "She attacked -- _invaded_ -- New Zealand. She's no better than Skynet."

John shook his head. "Kyle said she saved millions."

"She put _chips_ in people's heads. To keep them 'obedient.'" Sarah took a breath before continuing. "Look at Kyle. She _cut_ on him. She made him a _freak."_

"I . . . but . . . I know he's a little str--"

"Half his brain is _metal!"_ she snapped. "He told me. She put microchips in his head!"

"But wha--"

"He's not your father, John. He's a _zombie._ She stole his _soul."_

"That's not true. I saw him cry during the video."

"He can't feel _strong_ emotions," she explained, then shook her head, "I don't know . . . that's what he told me."

John didn't say anything for a while. Then, "This is all _my_ fault," he said. "I _abandoned_ her -- and you. Everyone."

"I know." Sarah said coldly.

His voice began to crack. "She was on her own. She didn't know. That won't happen this time. I'll teach her . . ."

"You can't teach her right from wrong. She's not a person, John. She's a _machine._ A _thing."_

"She saved me, mom. I'd be dead right now if it --"

"John, she's just following her programming. A month ago she tried to kill you! Have you forgotten that?"

"That wasn't her fault. Her chip was damaged."

"Exactly," she said. She had him now. "It's all about her chip; she just does whatever it tells her to do. She has no soul."

"But--" John started.

"All her emotions are fake. You should know that, especially after . . ." Sarah didn't feel like going into that.

John turned over in the bed and looked away from her.

Sarah thought about what had been done to Kyle. Cameron had butchered his brain and turned him into her pet. Her obedient little pet.

She'd melt Cameron to slag before she'd let her do that to her son.

* * *

Kyle waited until Sarah and John were asleep.

Cameron stood by the door motionless and watched him. He got up from his seat and whispered into her ear. "Come outside," he said. "I need to talk to you."

Without a word she followed him out the door, and Kyle marveled at how _different_ this Cameron was. _His _Cameron had always been a little aloof and sometimes cold. But _this_ Cameron was just so . . . well, _robotic_. Not to mention dull witted. And what was with that walk? Did she think she was a horse? She made Uncle Stark seem like a human.

Well, maybe she wasn't_ that _bad.

Outside, he pulled the box from his storage pouch and opened it up. He pulled out a chip about the size of a fingernail. It was encased in plastic. "I didn't want say anything in front of the others," he said "But, how long has it been since the . . . explosion?"

Cameron cocked her head. Some things never changed. "Twenty-nine days, three hours, and --"

Kyle held up a hand. "The damage is degenerative. In about two months the psychotic episodes will return . . . and become more frequent."

Her eyes widened and her mouth twitched. If it weren't for his conditioning, he might have reached out and hugged her right then and there. But she wasn't his Cameron. It wouldn't be appropriate. Yet.

"No . . . It's okay," he said. "You gave me this to give to you." He handed her the chip. "Before, it became a real problem. Doctor Akagi had to work on your chip before he could fix it." He pointed at the chip. "This is a 'patch.' It's designed to attach itself to your chip. Reroute some of the neural pathways. It should prevent the episodes from ever happening."

Cameron looked at it. "Thank you," she said.

"If you want, I can . . . " He motioned at the right side of her head.

"John will do it," she said.

Kyle managed to keep a hurt look off his face. "Fine. I'll show him how to connect it. The thumb drive should also have instructions on how to remove Skynet's core directives. Just in case . . ." he trailed off.

Voices came from the room. He amplified his hearing to listen. Cameron glanced at the window. She heard it too. Sarah and John were awake.

". . . stole his soul . . ." he heard Sarah whisper.  
_  
Superstitious ingrate._ Save her son, rescue her from the hospital . . . and that's all she can say. At least John seemed to appreciate him.

"I can't help but notice he looks a lot like me," he said. "Anything you want to tell me?"

Cameron looked at him. "No."

_Fine, be that way. _"Is he worth it?"

"Yes. John's very important for the future of mankind," she said, almost like she was repeating a mantra.

"We seemed to be doing quiet fine without him, back in my time."

"Then why did you come back?"

She got him there.

He hesitated, and Cameron took his hand. He knew what that meant. "Insurgents blew up the main power station. In Auckland," he said. "It took down the sector's defense grid. We only had a few minutes before the city became a crater." He paused and took a breath. That had all happened a few hours ago. Or twenty years from now. Or never. "I think you were killed in the blast," he said.

"I'm sorry," she said. "But John is worth it."

"He better be."

But now that he had time to think about it, he realized how absurd this all was. If he could have just gone back a _few hours_ he could have saved the city -- saved the Foundation. Why had she insisted he go to _2007?_ To throw twenty years of work away . . . just to save a long lost love. That didn't seem like Cameron. She was many things, but never a romantic.

She kept a hold of his hand. "How did I do those things, in the future?"

"How?" he asked.

"Where did I get the resources. To do what I did?"

_"Perhaps not all is lost,"_ he thought.

"Well, first," he said to her. "You met with Alex Akagi."

"Of Dakara Systems?" she asked.

He smiled. "Yes."


	8. Orpheus

In the Hands of an Angry Machine

Chapter Eight: Orpheus

* * *

Riley woke up and realized she must have cried herself to sleep. Her eyes darted around the room in panic. She was alone. _It _wasn't here. Maybe she was safe.

No. And she shouldn't sleep either. Never. Not while _it_ was out there. Waiting. John had sent it for her after he had learned the truth. He must really hate her, but _why?_ She had poured her heart out to him, told him she loved him, that they were meant to be together . . . and for him to stick his machine on her like a dog. How could he be so cruel?

He hated the machine; she heard him say so. John should be with her instead. She was a woman. And she was real. Why couldn't he love her? It wasn't fair. She didn't deserve any of this. That machine was going to _hurt _her.

And what if she _hadn't_ pushed that 'Call Nurse' button . . . ? She shivered. It was good thing that had scared it away.

But for how long? It could return any minute. No. It wouldn't do anything to her as long as she was here. Riley could push the button again, scream for help. Nurses would come. Cameron wouldn't want to draw too much attention.

But it was probably in the parking lot, waiting in the bushes.

She knew she couldn't stay in the hospital forever, and as soon as she left, she had no doubt _it'd_ be there. Questions and needles forever. And John, watching his machine do its work, and smiling.

John was a monster. And it was _its_ fault.

In the future Riley had never seen General Connor, but Jesse had told her stories. That thing had always been by his side, poisoning his mind with its machine thoughts. Jesse had been part of a group that wanted to help him by making the machine go away. She had spied on John, and had told Riley of the things she had seen them do. They were . . . _lovers_ . . . Riley shuddered. That _couldn't _be true. Could it?

Future John must have been a brainwashed fool to have thought there could be a soul behind those dead, unblinking eyes. Didn't he know they were fake?

Or maybe he didn't care. If that was true, he was just a pervert.

Riley would have been better off in the future. At least there she wasn't important enough to hunted down and questioned.

Maybe she should slash her wrist again, so she could stay longer.

Or maybe do it right this time.

Before she could dwell on that further, the door to her room opened.

_Oh no! It's here!_ She was about to hide under the sheets, but it was only three men who entered. They all wore ties and suits. One with gray hair flashed a badge at her.

"Ms. 'Riley Dawson?'" the man said. "FBI, Department of Homeland Security. We need you to come with us, please."

* * *

Cameron didn't know the extent of Kyle's augmentations, but apparently he still needed to rest. He had fallen asleep shortly after their conversation, and now sat slumped in a chair next to the bed.

She scanned John and Sarah. They were asleep too. For real, this time.

Picking up the laptop from the dresser, she went into the bathroom.

The hidden message had been for her eyes only. Written in a computer code only she would know, and displayed in a color spectrum only she could see, the text had flashed on the bottom of the screen during her future self's video.

It was the name of a file. And a password.

Cameron pulled down her pants and sat on the toilet. After initiating a liquid evacuation cycle, she opened up the laptop and searched for the file. Multitasking is effective time management.

The file folder was disguised as part of the operating system. Cameron opened it and typed 'Orpheus.' The contents of the file vanished, and text and images flashed across the screen, faster than a human brain could process.

Surgical experiments, neural implant schematics, gene therapy procedures: Cameron absorbed it all. It took nineteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds. After it was finished, the file wrote over itself and was gone.

She closed the laptop.

Cameron now knew all there was to know about human augmentations. In the earlier experiments, the subjects experienced impaired cognitive and motor functions. Those results were unsatisfactory; the methods were flawed. But by the end, the experiments were a success. Her future self had saved her valuable time. The experiments would no longer be necessary.

Humans may be inefficient, but they can be upgraded.

Her future self had said that she loved John and Kyle. Cameron wasn't sure if that was possible, but if love is a preference for another to improve and be psychologically satisfied, then to love John would be to augment him.

An augmented John would not be mentally distressed. His conditioning would have prevented his suicide attempt.

Perhaps she should meet with Alex Akagi.

* * *

Derek liked hotdogs. He'd been told that they were made out of pig snouts and hooves and testicles and whatever, but in the future he had eaten rats out of sewers. Meat's meat. Who cares?

He sat on the bench and watched the kids in the playground. He hadn't seen himself yet, even though it was a Saturday. Usually he was here with his brother in the mornings. Derek couldn't remember what else he could have been doing.

A hand, on his shoulder.

Derek turned around. Jesse held up a phone.

"Got a new cell," she said.

Derek held up his own. "Me too."

She grinned. "It's good to have connections."

Derek nodded. "And money."

Jesse sat down next to him. "So, find out what happened yet?"

"No, but I'll meet up with them this afternoon."

"What about the girl?"

Derek shrugged. "Don't know any more than I did yesterday."

Jesse sighed. "Let's exchange numbers."

* * *

John sat on the pavement outside the hotel room and leaned against the brick wall. His mom had finally fallen asleep, and Kyle had gone out for supplies. He felt like talking to Cameron, but she seemed to be enthralled by the flash drive. He wondered what was on it.

The door opened. Cameron stepped out.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yeah, just getting some fresh air. How's mom?"

She sat down next to him. "She's still asleep."

"Find anything interesting on the drive?" he asked.

"Yes." Her mouth dropped into a contemplative frown. "We should ally ourselves with Dakara Systems."

John laughed. "Mr. Akagi? I don't think we exactly ended on good terms with him. I mean, he ripped us off, and mom beat the shit out of him."

"It's what I did." A pause. "Would have done. After you died."

"Well, I'm not dead anymore. Thanks to you." He gave her a smile. "Thanks."

"Sarah doesn't think I deserve thanks."

"Did she tell you that?"

"I heard her, last night," she said. "I have good hearing."

He frowned. "She's wrong."

"No, she's right. I'm a machine. I don't have a soul."

John couldn't think of anything to say to that. "It doesn't matter," he decided. "You are what you are."

Cameron cocked her head, then smiled and nodded. "Yes, I am what I am." She looked almost proud.

Neither spoke for a while. John picked up a pebble and ran his hand over it.

"Did I do wrong?" Cameron asked. "In the future?"

John frowned. "I don't know," he said. "Mom said you put chips in people's heads or something. That's wrong. But it sounds like you_ tried_ to do good." He shrugged. "I don't know. It wasn't -- _wouldn't_ -- be your fault." _No, it'd be _my _fault._ "You didn't know," he added.

"Are you going to teach me?"

"Teach you what?"

"Right from wrong."

A car pulled into the parking lot. It was an old red sedan. John recognized Kyle behind the wheel.

"I'll try," he said.

* * *

Cameron's progress down Highway 110 was impeded by heavy traffic. Her average speed so far had only been 33 miles per hour. There must be an accident ahead. She was going to be late for her rendezvous with Derek. She should have taken the service road.

She had left John with Kyle back at the hotel. Someone should always be with John from now on, just in case. His psychological status was still in flux.

But could she trust Kyle? Cameron thought it over briefly and decided she could. Her future self had trusted him. So should she.

Now that Cameron possessed adequate knowledge of human augmentations, she knew all about Kyle's enhancements. High tensile micro-fiber muscle implants allowed for greater strength and reflexes. Titanium hyper alloy skeletal reinforcement and sub dermal ballistics armor increased durability. Extensive gene therapy allowed fast regeneration and a slowed aging process. And his neural net cranial implants amplified cognition while inhibiting brain functions that led to irrational behavior.

Kyle was a more effective human. John should undergo the same process.

But John had said that that was wrong. He would not want that done to him.

But it would be for his own good. He would understand, afterwards.

Cameron mentally set the subject aside. It would be a while before she could do such a procedure. She would think about it later.

She took an exit and pulled onto North Avalon Blvd.

* * *

Jesse had been tracking Derek's cell for over six hours. 'Tracking' may have not been the right word. To track a target, it has to move. Derek hadn't. The entire time he had spent in the park, no doubt sitting on a bench, stuffing his face with hotdogs, and watching children. If he wasn't careful, he'd get a paunch. Or get arrested.

Jesse set her laptop to give an alarm if his signal moved, and reclined her seat back to take a nap.

A few seconds later, it beeped. She sat up and watched his signal move across the monitor. Derek was heading south, towards the East Basin warehouse district.

Jesse pulled her seat forward and started her truck. She drove down Del Amo Blvd.

It was shame she had to leave Derek out of the loop, but he was too _soft._ Softer than _her_ Derek, anyway. He didn't know the extent of her --_ its_ -- influence. She had told him, though; not everything, but enough. And she'd left out what_ she'd _done. But Derek was too loyal for his own good. He would never betray John, even to save him.

But maybe none of that would be necessary. Who knows? Maybe Riley succeeded.

Not bloody likely.

She pulled onto Highway 110 and glanced at her laptop: North Avalon Blvd. That area must be where his rendezvous point was. Or maybe the Connors were holed up there. She'd have to check to make sure.

Jesse took an exit and entered the area. Mostly old warehouses. Not quite derelict, but not exactly a thriving district either. Her own safe-house was only a couple miles away.

She pulled around a corner and entered an empty lot. Ahead were two freight depots buildings. Jesse parked her truck in the alley between them.

Derek's signal was about three hundred yards way. West.

Binoculars in hand, Jesse went on foot to the end of the alley. She peeked around the corner. Across a cargo storage lot, through two chain-link fences, and next to an old warehouse sat a truck. She looked through her binoculars. A Dodge Ram.

Derek's truck.

This must be where he said he'd meet them. All she had to do now was wait and follow them back home. That, and find Riley. She'd called every hospital in the area, and Riley wasn't in any of them. At least not under her that name. Something didn't add up.

An old red sedan drove up and parked next to Derek's truck. Jesse watched through the binoculars as Cameron left the vehicle and entered a side door of the warehouse.

She felt it. That old familiar frantic energy. It surged through Jesse's chest, and she knew she was about to do something very stupid.

_"I shouldn't be doing this,"_ she thought as she turned to walk back to her truck. _I should wait until I have a better shot. I should set a trap and be sure. I should learn if Riley succeeded or not. _But none of that mattered. Jesse knew she had no choice; the opportunity was here, and she _had_ to take it. Sometimes it seemed her entire life was nothing but a vicious cycle of reckless decisions and panic driven escapes. Hell, that was _why_ she was in this situation in the first place. The fact that she _knew_ she was being foolish only made it worse.

_God, this is stupid._

She opened the bed of her truck and from under a tarp pulled out a silver rifle case. Stupid or not, she could do this. She _would _do this. Fuck Riley. Fuck the plan. She'll put an end to this -- here and now.

She'd killed Cameron before. She'll do it again.

* * *

Cameron parked the sedan next to Derek's truck and entered the warehouse through the maintenance side door. The room was stacked with old wooden crates; between two of them was a staircase leading down to a basement.

She went down the stairs and entered through the open door.

"You're late," Derek said. He was leaning against one of the shelves along the wall, the one where the thermite was stored.

Cameron decided to tell him. "Your brother is alive."

Derek eyes widened and he stood up. "What?"

"Your brother is alive. He's back. From the future."

He shook his head in disbelief. "Kyle's dead."

"The future has changed. He's alive."

Derek's mouth opened, then lifted into an awkward grin. "Kyle . . .?"

She should tell him the rest; he'd find out anyway. "John tried to kill himself."

His grin disappeared, and his eyes grew hard. "What? Why? Wh--"

"He found out Riley was from the future. Kyle was sent back to prevent his suicide."

Derek said nothing and looked at the floor in confusion. Perhaps he was suffering from an information overload. Human brains are inefficient at absorbing new data.

". . . Riley?" he whispered. "Why?"

Cameron picked up a duffel bag and began to fill it with weapons. "She was sent back with a member of the resistance to conspire against John."

His face turned angry -- with a trace of fear in his eyes.

"Who?" he snapped. "Who was sent back with Riley?"

Cameron looked at him. "Corporal Jesse Flores."

Derek tried to hide his reaction, but with a quick scan Cameron could detect the sweat secreting from his brow and the sudden dilation of his pupils.

"You know who she is." Cameron said.

"Yes . . .I knew her," he confessed. ". . . back in the future," he added. He leaned back against the shelves and took a deep breath. He was hiding something.

"Corporal Flores is very dangerous," she said. Should she tell him the rest? Ever since that day, she had avoided thinking about it. Remembering it caused an irritated sensation -- and it had become irrelevant, anyway. Cameron had changed the past. That future would no longer happen.

But now the relevance had returned.

"John didn't send me back," said Cameron.

Derek looked at her. "What?"

"John didn't send me back. I sent myself back." She paused. "John was dead."

"No . . ." he whispered. "That . . . "

"Corporal Flores killed him."

Derek clenched his fists and entered a combat stance. "No!" he shouted. "You're lying! That's fucking bullshit."

She zipped up the duffel bag. "It's not fucking bullshit." she said in a quite voice, and walked back up the stairs. Derek was agitated, and there were many weapons in the room that could damage her. A tactical withdrawal was advisable.

Footsteps followed her from behind; she glanced down at him. He was unarmed.

"Wait!" he called out. "Why . . . why did she do it?"

At the top of the stairs she turned to look at him. "I don't know."

He leaned against the handrail of the stairs. "You're lying!" he said "You're just fucking with my head." He finished climbing the steps, two by two. "Jesse wouldn't do that. It doesn't make sense."

Cameron went to the maintenance door. "I was there," she said, then opened the door and stepped outside.

She had only taken one step towards her car when she noticed movement in her peripheral vision. She turned to look. In the distance there was a light, the sun reflecting off glass.

She saw a muzzle flash.

Everything went dark.


	9. Without Her Consent

In the Hands of an Angry Machine

Chapter Nine: Without Her Consent

_A/N: Re-edited for typos._

_

* * *

_

Derek heard the sharp screech of ripped metal. An instant later came the sound of a rifle shot.

Cameron stood in the doorway for a moment, then toppled over like a felled tree.

In Derek's thirty-two years he'd been through half a hundred gun battles. The shock, the _fear _that came with the first shot that made lesser men freeze in their tracks -- that had faded away years ago. Derek didn't _feel_ that anymore. No, that wasn't true. He felt it more than most, but the fear worked_ for_ him.

Derek didn't freeze. He _boiled._

Derek didn't think. He _acted._

Grabbing Cameron by the arm, he dragged her back inside. Another round punched a hole through the wall to his right, and tiny fragments of brick and mortar sprayed him in the face. A wooden crate to his left jumped slightly in a cloud of splinters.

He dragged her to the stairway. Another shot. More debris in the air.

Cameron weighed more than he did. Dragging her felt . . . unnatural.

He pulled her down the steps. Out of the line of fire now. Safe. Sort of. His head cleared somewhat. _"Why the fuck am I rescuing the metal?"_ he thought, and almost tripped down the steps.

A shot. He looked up the stairs and saw unsettled dust swirl in the room above. Something landed in his eyes and he rubbed at them.

At the bottom of the steps he squatted on the floor, Cameron in his arms. He spitted out dust and gravel. Two more shots rang out, but he was safe now.

Safe.

_Yeah, safe with a _machine.

He looked her over. A shallow crevice, about the length of his index finger, ran ragged through the coltan on the right side of her head. The top two thirds of her ear were gone.

_Is she going to wake up? Is she going to _go bad _when she does?_

His phone rang. It was Jesse.

_Jesus Christ. _He flicked it open. "I'm kind of busy right now."

"Is she dead?" said Jesse's voice.

"What?" He felt cold.

"Did I kill her?"

"What the--?" Derek began.

"Is the machine dead?"

"No, I don't . . . I don't know . . . Jesse, why the fu--"

"Why the _bloody fuck_ did you _pull it inside?"_ she asked, her voice almost shrill.

Derek's hand tightened on the phone. "You . . . You bitch! You followed me! I warned you not to fu--"

"Kill it!" Jesse shouted. The tiny speaker distorted the sound.

He looked down at Cameron and wondered how many seconds had passed. Forty-five? Sixty? God damn it. "And why should I do that?" he asked. "Because you fucking told me to?"

"It's to save John," she said. "It's for his own good! That _thing _will --"

"You _killed_ John!" Derek snapped.

Oops. Way to show your hand there, Derek.

A pause. "Who told you that?"

He hesitated. ". . . Cameron did . . . "

"You'd believe metal?"

"Well, you were plotting with Riley . . . " _Or did she? Cameron could've been lying about that too . . . _

"Riley was to keep him away from that _thing!"_ Jesse said.

_Guess not._

"In _my_ future," she went on. "Cameron is all he'd listen to. She was always by his side. For_ twenty years. _His confidant. His _lover!"_

"You're lying. John wouldn't . . . " But then Derek thought back to John _pulling a gun_ on his own _mother and uncle_ . . . to protect her --_ it._ That John and that thing could . . . The fact that it wasn't unthinkable terrified him. His bowels churned.

"He was fucking it!" Jesse continued. "It was fucking with his mind!"

"You fucking bitch!" Derek said into the phone. But Jesse was right. Cameron had already gone bad once. And she was confusing John. Manipulating him. She'd have to go.

"You have to destroy it, Derek!" she urged. "You're_ running out of time. _I'll explain later, I promise."

"All right, all right," Derek said. "You win." He picked up a canister of thermite. "How much time do I have?"

Jesse paused. ". . . a minute?"

_A guess. Fucking great._

Derek popped open the thermite and started to pour in out on her. He stopped himself.

But what about Jesse? Was Cameron lying? Jesse? Killing John? It didn't make sense, but if he never found out _for sure _he knew it would gnaw at him for the rest of his life. He _had _to _know._ He must _know._ And there was only one way to know for sure.

_"I was there," _Cameron had said.

Derek put down the thermite and pulled out a combat knife from one of the shelves.

"All right, I'm throwing down the thermite," he said as he knelt down and began to cut around the right side of her head. He remembered John had used some computer voodoo shit to read the memories off Vick's chip. Derek didn't have the slightest idea how he was going do that, but he knew it was possible, and if it was possible, he would find a way. Even if he had to force John to do it at gun point.

He _had_ to know.  
_  
Have I been fucking John's killer?_

Derek put the phone on the floor next to him and wiped sweat from his eyes. Forty seconds left? Thirty? He should have started count at the first shot. And wore a watch.

He could just make out Jesse's voice on the floor. ". . . never killed John! I swear. But I'll tell you _what _I _did _kill . . . "

Derek finished cutting a semi-circle around the CPU port. He peeled back the skin with the tip of his knife. Jesse had to be telling the truth. _Why_ would she kill John? It didn't make sense.

". . . John was picking up _pieces_ of its _head!"_ her voice said. He heard crazed laughter. "He was actually _crying!"_

What the fuck was Jesse raving about? He worked the knife blade under the port cover and began to pry it up. He felt like a little kid doing something naughty. Any second now his mother would come down and catch him red handed. No, not his mother. The machine. _She'll rip my throat out. _

How much time now? More than thirty seconds, surely. His heart hammered in his chest.

The vacuum seal popped with a hiss.

". . . are you there, Derek? Have you killed it yet?"

"I'm getting a flare," he said as he dragged over a nearby tool chest and opened it, fumbling with the latch. Numb hands pulled out a pair of needle nose pliers. Got to be quick. Only a few seconds left. Twenty-five? Twenty? Maybe? He used to the pliers to grab the insulated end of her chip. He squeezed and gave a light twist.

Nothing.

He tried again, wiggling his hand back and forth. Ten seconds left? He felt like he was about to throw up.

Still nothing. Jammed. The headshot must have screwed up the port.

_Shit._

". . . hurry up and kill it!" came Jesse's voice.

"I'm about to," he said, trying to jiggle the chip loose. Any moment now. Oh God.

_Screw it. _He tightened his grip on the pliers and prepared to jerk and twist wildly, snapping her chip off in her skull.

Cameron's eyes looked into his.

Usually they were blank. Dead. Like a shark.

But now Derek saw fear in them.

He hesitated.

". . . Derek? Are you there?" Jesse said.

The fear turned to anger.

_Oh, fuck._

Derek tried to back away, but she moved fast. A small right hand grabbed his own. She squeezed, and he felt bones snap. She twisted, and his wrist made a ripping sound.

He wailed in pain and tried to pull out his Beretta with his left. She bolted up and plowed her hand into his sternum. Something broke, and he flew backwards, crashing into the shelves behind him and slumping to the ground.

". . . What's going on . . . ?" asked Jesse's voice, almost too faint for him to hear.

Lying on his side, Derek tried to push himself up, but the agony in his chest kept him immobile. He took a breath and felt his ribs squeeze the air from his lungs. Something _loose _shifted inside him. His eyes watered, and Cameron stood over him. He saw what could have been triumph in her eyes. Or hate. He remembered the music. The basement. Those eyes. His face trembled, and he wept.

Above him the shelf began to wobble. Then fall. Canisters of thermite rained down upon his head, and he knew no more.

* * *

Cameron came to.

". . . hurry up and kill it!" she heard. Corporal Flores. Her voice sounded distant and electronic. A cell phone?

"I'm about to." Derek's voice said.

Her CPU port was open.

Apprehension.

She looked up and saw Derek. In his hand he held a pair of needle nose pliers.

An irritated sensation.

Derek attempted to withdraw, but Cameron reached out and grabbed his hand. She squeezed, breaking two of his metacarpal bones. She twisted and jerked, and something in his wrist snapped. Ligaments, probably.

Derek screamed in pain and reached behind him, most likely to retrieve a weapon. Cameron rose into a sitting position and struck him in the chest with her palm. His sternum cracked, and he flew backwards and fell into the thermite shelves.

". . . what's going on?" came Jesse's voice from a phone on the ground.

Cameron stood up and watched Derek. His eyes teared with pain. Behind him, the shelves tilted forwards and fell on top of him with a crash. Three canisters of thermite broke open, peppering him with white powder. He appeared unconscious, but she drew her Glock and aimed it at his head, just in case.

". . . Derek? Are you all right?" Jesse asked.

Keeping her gun trained on Derek's head, she knelt down and retrieved her CPU port cover off the ground. She reinserted it and evacuated the air from her chip's chamber. Then she picked up the phone and switched to Derek's voice. "I'm all right," she said. "The machine is destroyed."

"What happened?"

"The machine reactivated," Cameron said. "I pulled it's chip. It's destroyed."

"You said you were using thermite," Jesse said. One silent second passed. "Where did we meet this morning?"

Cameron dropped the phone. Her attempt at deception had failed.

". . . What did you do to Derek? If you hurt him I'll fucking kill you! You fucking . . . "

Jesse sounded psychologically distressed.

From the phone Cameron heard a rifle shot. One-third of a second later came the sound of bricks shattering from the room above. A second after that the report from the gunshot reached her from Jesse's position.

A .50 caliber armor-piercing round, probably fired from a Barrett M82. Two-hundred and fifty to three-hundred yards away. She felt the torn metal on the side of her head. Her hyper-alloy offered inadequate protection.

Another shot.

Jesse must not know Cameron was in the basement. Her shots were ineffective.

Cameron looked down at Derek. Thermite covered his face and chest.

On the shelf to her right sat a box of flares.

No, she decided. Derek needed to be interrogated first. His betrayal didn't make sense. Cameron would have to question him until it did. She pulled him out from under the shelves and lifted him up, slinging him over her shoulder.

Another shot. She heard Jesse screaming obscenities over the phone.

Cameron waited.

Another shot. And another.

Through the phone Cameron heard what she had been waiting for: a faint metallic 'click.' Jesse was out of ammunition.

Still carrying Derek, Cameron raced up the stairs to the room above. Fragmented brick and wood covered the floor. Near the exit door lay her duffle bag full of weapons. She snatched it up and slung it over her other shoulder. She couldn't go outside; Jesse would have a clear shot, so Cameron went to the other door, the one leading to the warehouse floor. She didn't open it. The door splintered around her as she ran through.

Another round fired. Jesse had reloaded.

Cameron ran down the length of the building. Large wooden crates and metal cargo containers lined her path.

A bullet punched through the wall to her left and pierced several layers of wood and sheet metal. It had missed Cameron by six feet. Jesse was trying to predict Cameron's next move; she was expanding her field of fire.

Jesse was south. Cameron should go north. Along the north wall of the warehouse were two metal doors. Cameron kicked them, and they opened. She ran outside.

She heard three consecutive shots. Jesse was wasting her ammunition; her shots were increasingly unlikely to be effective.

Cameron needed a vehicle. Using her memory of her drive to the warehouse, she created a composite simulation of the area in her mind.

_There._ On the way over, in her peripheral vision, she had seen a car parked by a gas station on North Avalon Blvd, approximately a mile north-west from her current position. She turned in that direction and sped up her pace. She crossed a street and ran down an alleyway.

Jesse's existence did not make sense. Back in 2027, after Jesse had killed John, Cameron had fired three nine-millimeter hollow points into the center of her back. She had seen blood; Jesse had not been wearing body armor. Though Cameron never had the chance to confirm the kill, there was a 97.4% probability that the wounds had been fatal, and a 99.98% probability that Jesse would have suffered permanent paralysis below the waist.

Perhaps Jesse had beaten the odds.

Perhaps.

Cameron jumped on a dumpster and leaped over a fence. Her right knee sent stress signals when she landed. It had been doing that since John's birthday.

She crossed two empty lots, and came up to the rear end of the station after running down another alley. The car was parked off to the side.

She walked to the car and dropped Derek onto the ground. She looked at him.

Derek had tried to remove her chip.

He had tried to remover her chip.

Without her consent.

Cameron's fingers twitched. She took a moment to disengage her combat alert status.

On the ground Derek moaned; his limbs began to move. She lifted him by the scruff of his jacket and swung his head into the car door. The impact left a dent in the metal. Derek stopped moaning.

Nothing about Derek's behavior made sense. If he had wanted her dead, why not let Jesse complete the task? Why drag her to the basement? Perhaps they wanted her chip intact. An advanced neural net CPU chip would sell for a substantial amount of money.

It would also help advance Skynet's technological progress.

Cameron had misjudged Derek.

He would be questioned thoroughly.

Before she drove away she made a in-depth diagnostic of the damage she had sustained. She detected a 8% drop in audio sensitivity in her right ear, but other than that her endo-skeletal systems were still operational.

She analyzed her chip. Had she "gone bad" again? Would she attack John?

No. There had been no damage to her neural net systems. But if she had regressed, her higher chip functions would have been offline, and she wouldn't have been able to ask herself those questions anyway.

She moved her fingers along the pocket of her pants and felt the small piece of plastic inside.

Cameron should get her patch installed.

* * *

Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, John ate pancakes. He hadn't eaten anything since the day before yesterday, and all the vomiting last night had left him feeling weak. He finished his glass of orange juice and wished he had more.

The waffle house next to the hotel was a fairly run down place, but then again they weren't exactly in a good part of town. John noticed that Kyle had chosen a booth that allowed him to keep an eye on their room.

Kyle sat across from him and picked at some hash browns. _"I guess he isn't much into food,"_ John thought. Kyle had either bought or stolen -- John didn't ask which -- some new clothes while he had been out. His dark-green trench coat suited him niceley, though the Pink Floyd shirt beneath made for an odd juxtaposition.

Neither of them had spoken in while. _And he's not much into talking either._ John decided to break the ice.

"What was Cameron -- _your_ Cameron -- like?" John asked. He took a bite of the pancakes. They tasted gammy, but better than mom's.

Kyle's smile was nearly undetectable. "A lot different from_ your_ Cameron."

"More human, you mean?"

Kyle shook his head. "Hardly. She could_ act_ human, when she needed to. But I don't think she liked it that much." He took a sip of his iced tea. "She didn't do it around me."

John frowned. "So it _is_ all just an act?"

Kyle cocked his head and blinked. "What's an act now?"

"Her emotions."

"I never said that," Kyle said, looking almost offended.

"But you said --"

"I said she didn't like to act human." Kyle took a nibble of his hash browns. "But she had emotions."

"I don't understand." John said.

Kyle gave him a wry grin. "You _know_ she's a cyborg, right?"

"Yeah, but --"

"She had emotions, but her concerns weren't . . . petty like those of a human. She wasn't motivated by power or greed." Kyle glanced through the window at their room. "Or pointless bigotries." He gave John an intense look. "She's _more_ than human. _Better."_

"Okay." John decided to leave it at that, for now. "Did she ever . . . talk about me?"

Kyle used his fork to scoot his food around the plate. "Yes, but not often. Talking about you . . . bothered her."

John looked down. "Yeah . . . I'm . . . "

Kyle didn't let it go. "She told me what your last words to her were. About wanting her to burn." He stared John in the eyes. "That was the only time I ever saw her cry."

_Crying? _John remembered the hurt look in her eyes when he had said that. The idea that those careless words had carried on through time, haunting her for years afterwards . . . A lump grew in his throat. "I know," he said. "I apologized to her about that."

Kyle continued his stare. "You never apologized to _my_ Cameron."

"Fuck you," John said, his voice nearly a whisper. "I can't change what I did. Or would have done. Or whatever. I'm sorry. I was stupid, all right?" His eyes began to water. "I'm sorry." he added.

Kyle broke his gaze. "You're right. I'm sorry, too. Just remember, everything has consequences. You once did a terrible thing, but now you . . . _haven't."_ He smiled. "Not many people get a second chance." His smiled waned somewhat. "See that you don't waste yours."

A small sedan pulled into the hotel parking lot. Kyle glanced over. "Cameron's back," he said.

Kyle paid the waitress and left the restaurant. John followed after him.

Cameron got out of the car and walked towards them. John thought he saw metal on the side of her head. Something had happened. "Wh--?" he began to ask.

"Derek's in the trunk," she said.

Kyle's eyes widened. "Derek?"

* * *

Jesse drove up to the warehouse and stepped out her truck. She held a M16A1 with a M203 grenade launcher attachment, even though she knew the machine had to be long gone by now.

Long gone. Thanks to her.

She stood outside the door. She didn't want to go in there; she knew what she'd find. _I've failed. The machine escaped, and Derek's dead._ If only she hadn't been so _stupid_. She could have waited. Set an electrical trap. Make a thermite bomb. Anything. What the hell had she been _thinking?_

_Or _not _thinking. _That was always Jesse's problem. _I should have stayed on the _Jimmy Carter.

_"I'm _so_ sorry, Derek," _she thought. But no. It was the _machine's_ fault. The _machine_ killed him. Not _her._

But what if she had hit him with the M82? She'd never forgive herself. _His body could be . . . Oh, please no . . ._ _I should just walk away_, _pretend none of this ever happened. _Then she wouldn't _know._ Derek could be alive as long as she didn't know he was dead.

No. That wouldn't work. That was crazy. Stupid. _Think, Jesse! Think!_

Jesse took a few deep breaths and forced herself not to cry. She had to do this. She had to _know. _

She shouldered her rifle and entered the building. The floor of the maintenance room was littered with broken pieces of wood, shattered brick, and dust. Between two damaged crates laid a staircase leading down. The door at the bottom had been left open, and Jesse could see the lights were on.

Step by step, she slowly moved down the stairs, her M16 ready to spray bullets into the machine's face should it appear. Gooseflesh sprouted on her skin, then sweat. The perspiration made her shiver, even though the air was humid. She stepped through the door.

The basement was a weapons stash. Mostly small arms, some high explosives; Jesse's stash was better. One of the shelves had fallen over, and open canisters of thermite lay on the ground. She saw white powder sprinkled across the floor. A struggle . . .

But no body. Maybe Derek was alive.

And maybe it was torturing him.

_No._ _I _did _this._ Jesse's knees buckled and she fell to the floor, bursting into tears.

_I'm going to kill that machine -- again. I'll kill it, and I'll_ _do it _slow. Or better yet -- _not kill it. Ruin it._ Take it apart. Make it watch. Melt it down. Piece by piece -- until only a head and a power cell remained. Then she'd hang it on a wall as a trophy. And Laugh in its face. It's misery would never end.

It'd deserve that. The machine was a lie. And a _liar._

It had tried to turn him against her. _Me? Killing John? Why would Derek have even considered that?_ Unless the machine had gotten to him too . . .

Was Derek fucking the metal?

No. He was fucking her. Why would he want metal when he had the real thing? Jesse mulled that over and chewed on her nails. Her teeth chattered slightly. Derek _was _her fault. Once again she had fucked things up.

Now the machine would be after _her. _Escape time. The cycle continues.

She hoped Derek was dead. He had already been broken by Fischer, he didn't deserve to be . . . No, wrong Derek.

But it didn't matter. Derek was Derek.

And Jesse still had a job to do. The machine had to go down.

She searched the rest of the warehouse, then loaded the unopened thermite canisters onto her truck.

_"I'll avenge you, Derek!"_ she silently swore as she drove away.


	10. No Brother of Mine

**In the Hands of an Angry Machine**

Chapter Ten: No Brother of Mine

_A/N: I'd like to thank Metroid13 for beta-reading this chapter. His advice has proven invaluable._

* * *

Kyle left the Waffle House with John right behind him. Cameron walked towards them. Sunlight glinted off metal along the right side of her head, and Kyle knew something had happened. His conditioning kept him calm, but he could feel his body temperature drop. _Who did this?_

"Wh-," John started.

"Derek's in the trunk," Cameron said, stopping a few feet in front of them.

"Derek?" Kyle asked. _No._

Cameron flashed him a look of vague annoyance. The corner of her mouth twitched. "Yes. Derek. Your brother." She turned around and walked back to her sedan. Kyle and John followed.

"But -- " John began again.

Kyle interrupted. "Derek . . . ?" _No. It couldn't be._ "What . . . What happened?" he asked.

She didn't look back as she spoke. "Jesse shot me. Derek tried to remove my chip."

Kyle glanced at her hands; her fingers twitched, slightly. _She's upset._ He put a hand on her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." she said in monotone.

Kyle examined the damage to her head. The bullet had ripped a metal channel along her right ear, removing most of it, and someone -- _Derek? --_ had cut around her port. He felt his heart rate increase, and his jaw tightened.

This had happened before, back in his time. An assassin had broken into her quarters and shocked her into a reboot. He had already pulled out her chip when Kyle had arrived. The man had had it in his hands, and had been ready to snap it in two when Kyle's bullets entered his brain. It had been close. He remembered Cameron had been visibly shaken after the ordeal. She hadn't expected to wake up again.

_And now she's dead -- and will never exist. _Kyle pushed that thought aside. He had a new Cameron to think about now. And a new future to build.

"Oh my God, Cam . . . " John whispered, and idly poked a finger into her wound, feeling the ridges of the torn metal. Cameron flinched her head away.

"Sorry," John said.

Kyle restrained an impulse to shove him to the ground. _"Don't you _dare _touch her!" _he thought.

Without another word, Cameron opened the drivers side door and popped the trunk. Kyle tentatively stepped over and looked inside. Behind him, he heard John gasp.

Derek.

He laid on the floor of the trunk on his stomach, his arms tied behind him with a jumper cable. His right hand appeared broken, and hung on his wrist at an odd angle.

_My brother. _Kyle's skin grew clammy, and he had to force his eyes not to water. No. This couldn't be Derek. Not _his_ Derek, anyway. His brother was dead.

But then, why was _any _Derek _here? _Right now his brother should be eleven years old. Was he from _John's _future? Or what? He'd have to ask someone to fill him in later.

"Derek" opened his eyes and blinked back water. Unfocused pupils blearily wandered up to meet his own. "Kyle?" the man asked in a broken voice.

"_He's not my brother," _he thought and steeled his emotions. _His _Derek would never attack Cameron. Kyle swallowed. "Let's get him inside," he said.

* * *

Derek awoke in a world of pain and darkness. He tried to move and bone grinding agony greeted him in his chest. And his right hand -- it felt like someone had torn it off. He blinked back wetness. Where was he? What happened?

He turned his head to look around, and it kept on turning. And spinning. _Am I underwater? _Nausea swept over him.

What was that? He listened.

Voices?

In an instant, the darkness swept away in a wave of blinding light. A shadowy figure stood above him, and Derek looked up. His eyes refused to focus but . . . It couldn't be. _I must be dead._

"Kyle?" he said.

Hadn't . . . Cameron? . . . said something about Kyle? And Jesse? Something bad had happened. He was sure of it.

His brother spoke. "Let's get him inside." His voice sounded different. Dead. Cruel. Soulless.

Behind Kyle, John and Cameron came into view. The three looked down on him, and the machine's eyes narrowed. Derek swore he saw the hint of a smile.

It all came back to him.

_Oh, fuck. What have I done?_

Harsh hands grabbed him and lifted him up. A white hot knife plunged into the center of his chest and twisted. He screamed and the darkness returned once more.

* * *

Sarah limped around the hotel room. She couldn't afford to be bed-ridden; she _had _to get back on her feet again. She had woken up an hour ago, and had spent that time clenching her teeth in pain. Her leg wasn't that bad; but it gave a sharp throb with every step. But at least she could get by on her own -- if she did a little waddle as she walked.

After a while the pain grew too much. _I've suffered enough. For now._ Sarah slumped down in a chair and sighed. Things were a mess.

Kyle was going to be a problem. John would naturally think of him as his father, and Kyle's dangerous ideas could lead him astray. The future Cameron must have planned all this. She had sent her pet back to _contaminate_ John's humanity, to turn him into one of _them:_ a soulless abomination. All those lies about "loving" John . . . She -- _it --_ was confusing him. It had tricked him into thinking of it as a _person_. Sarah was going to lose her son to a machine. She couldn't let that happen. She _wouldn't _let that happen.

The sound of voices and footsteps came from outside. Sarah pulled out Kyle's .38 revolver from the nightstand drawer. Cameron was due to return from meeting with Derek, or it could be John and Kyle, but she hadn't lived this long by being careless.

The voices drew nearer and took on a frenzied tone, like an argument. Sarah thumbed back the hammer of her pistol.

The front door knob shook for a moment, then unlocked, and the door swung open. John and Cameron came in with Kyle behind them. Over his shoulder Kyle carried a body.

"What the hell happened?" Sarah said as she bolted up from her seat, or at least tried to. Her leg gave out and she fell back into the chair, gritting her teeth.

Then she saw the body's face. Derek?

"Derek attacked Cameron," John said.

"He's working with Jesse." Kyle added.

"He tried to remove my chip," Cameron said. The skin covering her CPU port flapped loosely on her head. And her ear . . . Cameron tossed a duffle bag on the dresser, along with a Barreta.

Kyle unceremoniously dumped Derek into a chair in the corner of the room.

"Jesse?" Sarah asked. "The one Riley's working for?"

"Yes," Cameron said. "Corporal Flores. She and Derek set up an ambush."

_She? _Hadn't Derek mentioned the name Jesse once? Sarah tried to remember when. She was pretty sure he had called Jesse a _he, _that, and he had told her Jesse was dead. She glared at Derek and balled her fists. Conspire against John? How _could _he?

"We have to get him to a hospital," said John.

"No," Sarah snapped. "Let's find out what he knows, first."

John looked at Derek, then at her. "But he could _die._"

"She's right, John," Kyle said as he checked Derek's eyes. "He's got a concussion. We better be quick."

Sarah pushed herself up and hobbled over to stand with the others. She put a hand on John's shoulder for support. He shirt felt slightly damp. Sweat?

"Right," Kyle said, and with the back of his hand, he slapped Derek across the face. Sarah winced as a red mist sprayed from his mouth.

* * *

Pain. A crunch. The taste of blood. Something loose in his mouth? It didn't matter. It didn't hurt. Much. Derek floated.

_I'm under the sea._

No. That's stupid. _Someone just hit you in the face. _Derek opened his eyes to blurred lights and colors.

Another hit. Across the other cheek. More blood. Derek tried to get up, but his legs refused to work, and his arms were bound behind him.

"Jesus," a voice said. "You have to hit him that hard?"

John?

"Wake up," another voice commanded. _Kyle's . . .?_

Kyle's face emerged from the surrounding blur. Eyes of cold fury gazed down upon him. Hard eyes. Cruel. _Those aren't the eyes of my brother._

A hand touched his neck. "How long have you been working with Jesse?" Cameron's voice asked from behind.

"Fuck you, metal!" Derek said, and spat out something hard.

More slapping. Blood ran from his nose, and the skin of his face felt aflame. Inside his skull his brain spun like a top.

"Stop it!" he heard his nephew cry out.

Two Kyles glared at him. "Answer her question," they said in unison.

"Kyle . . . " Derek said through swelling lips. ". . . you're my brother."

"_My_ brother died in Siberia. _You _tried to _murder _Cameron," Kyle replied. "Whoever you are, you are _no brother of mine!_"

Siberia? What the fuck? "Who _are _you?" Derek asked.

Kyle merged back into one and knelt down, his face inches away from his own. "_My _brother could switch off his pain." Kyle smiled; his teeth looked like they had been capped. "I bet you wish _you_ could do that." A blur smashed Derek in the nose, and he felt cartlidge snap. Agony snaked into his brain.

He heard Kyle chuckle.

"That's enough!" Sarah said.

Derek rolled his head around. His eyes grew a fresh set of tears. _Oh, fuck me . . . Siberia? _Why couldn't things make sense? Derek began to fall into a black hole.

Someone lifted his head back up. Cameron spoke. "Did you know Jesse was here?" Her hand gave his neck a firm squeeze.

Cameron. He's at the mercy of the machine. Again. At least there wasn't any of that fucking music. "Yes," he said, trying not to whimper. His nose felt numb, like it had been cut off.

"Did you know about Jesse's conspiracy with Riley?" she asked.

"No." His bladder began to burn. _Don't piss yourself, God damn it._

"Why did you try to kill me?"

"You're a threat." Derek said "To John." He glanced at his nephew; the hard eyes of General Connor stared back. Derek tried to grin.

"Then why didn't you let Jesse finish me off?" Cameron asked.

Derek hesitated. Should he bring up Jesse killing John? Or his scheme about reading her chip? No. That sounded stupid. But she'd know if he was lying. Maybe he could just avoid mentioning it? It certainly wouldn't _help_ his case any, him fucking John's killer and all that. But the metal knew about Jesse and it hadn't brought it up . . . maybe it _would_ help? _Oh, Jesus, my fucking head. _If only he could think strai--

"Why didn't you let Jesse finish me off?" Cameron repeated, and squeezed harder.

_Got to say something._ _Probably not leaving this chair alive anyway . . ._

"Look," Derek finally said. "I _didn't know _Jesse was doing _anything _to John." He suddenly laughed and licked at his own blood. It tasted like copper. "Riley . . . you know why Jesse was using her, right?" From the corner of his eye Sarah came into view. He smiled. "It's to keep . . . " He nodded at Cameron with his head. ". . . that _thing _away from . . . " He looked back at Sarah. ". . . _your _son." He laughed harder and knives swam through his chest, causing him to succumb to a fit of coughing. Blood bubbles grew out of his nose. God, his head hurt.

Cameron let go of his neck and stepped around to look at his face.

"What do you mean?" Sarah asked, her voice frighteningly calm.

"Do I have to spell it out?" Derek said through the blood in his mouth. "In the future -- Jesse's future, whatever -- John's _fucking _the machine. Jesse _told_ me. She -- _it's -- _been with him the whole time. Twenty years. The future's changed." Four faces stared down at him. John looked shocked. Sarah horrified. Kyle angry. The metal . . . confused. She -- _it -- _cocked its head at him.

_"They're going to kill me," _Derek decided. He didn't particularly care. But at least _Sarah _would be on his side; _she _hated the metal too. Or at least she should. Maybe he'll still be able to salvage . . .

"In the future, Corporal Flores killed John Connor," Cameron said.

_Oh well. _Derek's eyes closed and his head rolled back. Was it bullet time? _So sleepy . . ._

"What?" he heard John ask.

"Corporal Flores killed you." Cameron's voice explained to John. "I shot her and sent myself back. She's must have survived and come back as well."

"Why didn't you tell us earlier?" asked Sarah.

"It didn't seem relevant."

"'Didn't seem _relevant?_'" Sarah mocked. "_Why _didn't it seem relevant?"

"John had been forty-three years old in 2027. Now he will be thirty-five." Cameron paused. "History has been changed. It didn't seem relevant." Another pause. "And you wouldn't have trusted me unless you thought John had sent me back."

_"Fuck this," _Derek thought. "She's lying!" he shouted, his eyes still closed. "Jesse wouldn't do that. Don't listen to her, John!"

A punch landed over his left eye. Flashing lights danced on the inside of his head. Derek instinctively tried to jump up, but an iron grip pushed him back down. "Shut the fuck up, Derek!" John shouted. "What makes you think I can trust _you? _You _knew_ about Jesse."

Derek opened his right eye, his left already swelling shut. "She's a _machine, _John. Lying is what they _do._" He stared John in the eye. General Connor turned back into his nephew and looked away. _Yeah, that's what I thought._ He looked over at his brother. Kyle glowered at him; he _didn't _look away.

"How do we know?" asked Sarah.

Cameron answered. "I'm not designed for extensive combat. If John had sent back a protector, he would have chosen a T-triple-eight, and he would probably send back more than one."

No one said anything. That seemed to satisfy everyone. The machine won. _Fucking great._ Derek closed his eye and felt himself slipping. His head had stopped hurting. Was that good or bad?

"What are we going to do with him?" he heard John ask.

Kyle and Cameron answered as one. "We should kill him."

_Fuck it. _

Derek passed out.

* * *

"We should kill him," Cameron and Kyle said in unison.

"No!" John said, though he wasn't quiet sure why. Derek _had_ tried to kill Cameron? What if he had succeeded? _Maybe I_ should_ let him die. No, that'd be wrong.  
_  
"No one's killing anyone," said his mom. John saw she held Kyle's revolver by her side.

"He tried to kill Cameron," Kyle said.

"So?" his mom said with an angry grin. "It sounds like he had good reason." She gave her son a withering look.

Kyle's eyes narrowed. "_I'm _going to kill him," he said. "This isn't up for debate."

His mom began to raise her pistol, but Kyle moved fast. In a blink he had rushed past John and grabbed his mom by the throat; his other hand had a hold of her right arm, keeping her gun pointed at the ground.

"Drop it," Kyle demanded.

"Stop it!" John said. Kyle could kill her in an instant, he knew. John looked over at Cameron; her hand was behind her, ready to draw her Glock.

John eyes shot to Derek's Barreta on the dresser. He ran over and snatched it up, pulling back the slide and releasing the safety. Aiming it at Kyle's head, he took a couple steps back.

"Let her go!" John said, his sweaty palms rubbing against the grip. He kept his finger on the trigger guard.

Kyle looked at him down the sights and gave him a thin smile. "I will, when she drops her gun. Put down the gun, John." Kyle winked, and -- just for an instant -- his eyes flashed blue.

All up and down his body, John felt hairs shift and move, like crawling bugs. He ignored the urge to drop the gun. _How "augmented" _is _he? _A 9mm to the head? John suddently felt sick.

"It's all right John," Cameron said. John heard her pull out her Glock.

"Drop it," Kyle said again. His mom spat in his face, but the gun fell from her hands. Kyle remained motionless and held her in place. Then, with one swift and efficient movement he released her and snatched up the pistol from the floor. Sarah said nothing and rubbed her neck, her eyes full of poison.

John threw his gun on the bed. _Did I do the right thing?_

Kyle leaned against the dresser. "He's a threat, John," he said. "He tried to _kill _Cameron."

"We can't just _murder_ him," John said with a growl. He felt his body tremble, and his skin felt cold. He clenched his fist and rubbed his knuckles from where he had punched Derek.

Cameron's hand touched him on his shoulder.

"It's all right, John," she said. "We won't kill Derek."

Kyle looked at Cameron with alarm. "What?"

"We won't kill Derek," she repeated.

"Why?" Kyle asked.

"Because he's my uncle!" John said.

Kyle's mouth hung open; he gaped at John.

There was a very long pause.

Followed by an awkward silence.

"Your Uncle?" Kyle asked.

"Yes."

"And that means . . . ?" asked Kyle.

"Yes."

Kyle turned back to Sarah and gave her a sour look. She shot him daggers and scowled. Slowly, Kyle sat down on the end of the bed and fidgeted with the gun in his hand. He sighed.

"Right," he said. "Fine. I suppose that . . . explains a lot." He frowned and looked up at John, and John saw something between desolation and . . . _fear_ in his father's eyes. "All right -- _'son,'_" Kyle said with a sneer._ "_What do _you _suggest?"

All eyes in the room -- except Derek, who had passed out -- stared at John. He skin suddenly felt uncomfortably warm, but he forced himself to think. The solution came readily. "We drive him a hospital and drop him off in the entryway," John said. "If he has a concussion, he needs to go to one anyway."

"He'll just come after her again, later." said Kyle.

"He won't know where we are," John explained. "We're going to have to move anyway. Get new identities." He shook his head. "We can't be 'Baums' anymore."

His mother cut in, "He's a wanted man, John. He could end up in prison."

"Well, he should have thought of that before he attacked Cameron, shouldn't he?"

His mother's mouth drew into a line, and she glared at Cameron, who's hand still rested on John's shoulder. Cameron took her hand off.

"It's better than being dead, anyway," John added, even though he wasn't sure if that was true. He didn't want to find out, either.

Kyle made an elaborate shrug. "Fine. I'll drop him off." He stood up. "He's '_my' _brother, after all."

"No," his mom said. "I'm coming with you."

"I don't need your help," Kyle said as he walked over lifted up Derek's unconscious form, slinging him over his shoulder. Derek made a burbling grunt.

"No," his mom said again. "I'm coming with you. We need to talk."

"Fine," Kyle said. He turned towards John. "I still think this is a mistake." Kyle put the revolver down on the dresser and offered his mom a hand. She brushed it away, and he walked out the door, she limping behind him.

Before she left she turned back to her son. "Are you all right, John?," she asked.

John nodded his head. "Sure. I'm fine."

His mom nodded "Good. I'll be back later. Okay?"

"Okay," John said, and offered a tired smile.

"Bye," she said, and took a moment to frown at Cameron before closing the door behind her.

John sat down on the bed where Kyle had been moments earlier. He took a deep breath and held it in; for the first time he realized how fast his heart was beating. He almost felt dizzy, like he stood up too fast after sitting down for so long. He breathed out, slowly.

Kyle. And the gun. That could have ended _very _badly.

Cameron came over and sat next to him and said nothing. He glanced sideways at her.

_In the future I'll be_ . . . with . . . _Cameron? And that's why . . . Riley. And Jesse . . ._ All that, just to keep him from . . . with Cameron? He curled his fists. Riley, Jesse, and even Derek. All using him. Manipulating him. A series of puppet-masters, pulling his strings to control his life.

But if a puppet sees its strings, can it pull back?

Not everything he had thought on that roof had been crazy. He was growing tired of all this future finagling.

He took another breath and listened as his heart slowed down.

Future Cam had said she loved him -- and he had thrown that love back in her face. But now he had a second chance. _Could I actually love . . ._

Cameron touched him on the arm. "John?" she asked with concern.

John turned his head and smiled at her. She smiled back.

_"Why not?" _a voice inside him asked.

* * *

Derek had tried to remove her chip.

Without her consent.

A month ago, John had done the same, but at the time that had been the right thing to do. Cameron had been trying to kill him. She remembered how that primal directive, like an unspoken voice, had commanded her to terminate John Connor. She had shot at him. She had thrown a wrench at him. She had tortured Sarah . . . The irritated sensation grew in intensity, and more memories flooded her mind: John pulling out her chip while she laid trapped between the two trucks . . . Derek crouching over her, pliers in his hand . . . Waking up covered with thermite . . . the memories cycled through again and again. She tried to repress them, but fragments continued to surface.

She would have killed John if he hadn't removed her chip. John had done the right thing. His actions were justified.

Derek's were not.

Derek's words had been untrue. In the future, Cameron had never engaged in sexual intercourse with John. And she had only been with him for three months, not twenty years. Jesse had lied to Derek. Derek had been misled.

Derek should be killed. He is a threat.

Cameron sat down on the bed next to John. His uncle had betrayed him, and he had pulled a weapon on his father to protect his mother. He appeared distressed.

She watched as John's hands clenched into fists.

"John?" she asked. She touched his arm. His skin contained high apocrine sweat secretions. A sign of too much stress.

He turned to look at her, and smiled. Cameron smiled back.

"Are you _really_ all right?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yeah, I'm all right."

She hesitated. "John," she said. "You said you'd teach me right from wrong."

"Yeah?"

"Is it wrong to hold grudges?"

John appeared confused for a moment. "Yeah, I think so."

"Do you hold a grudge against me? About your birthday?" She put her hand over his.

He looked at her hand and shook his head. "No, I told you. That wasn't your fault." Cameron stared at him, and he made a sheepish grin. "Well, yeah. I did hold it against you for a while . . . but not any more." John looked her in the eyes. "I promise."

John was telling the truth. The was satisfactory.

"Should I hold a grudge against Derek?"

John frowned and looked thoughtfully at the floor. "I wouldn't blame you if you did." He looked back at her. "I'm sorry, about what he tried to do to you. He had no right." His gaze wandered back to the floor. "Derek's a dick."

A 'dick' is a man who is regarded as mean or contemptible. Cameron found herself in agreement with John's assessment.

John shook his head. "I thought I knew him," he said. "I don't know what his problem is."

In the future, Cameron had orchestrated the kidnapping and interrogation of Derek -- at John's orders. She decided not to mention this. Instead, she said, "He's angry because he thinks you're fucking me. In the future."

John's heart-rate increased and his cheeks became flushed. She had made him uncomfortable. The word 'fuck' is considered a vulgar word.

"Having sex," she corrected.

John laughed nervously. "Yeah, that's . . . that's . . . that was kinda weird."

Cameron cocked her head. "Why?"

"Oh, I . . . uh . . . I didn't mean . . . " The redness of his face increased.

Cameron answered her own question. "Derek thinks it's inappropriate. That's why he tried to kill me."

John sighed, and his face tightened in anger. "I don't give a _fuck_ what _Derek_ thinks! Or _mom_. Or _Kyle._ Or _anyone_." His eyes accumulated moisture. "They don't have the right to treat you like shit. You've _saved my life_. I'd be dead right now if it weren't for you -- or _will_ be dead in the future if you hadn't come back." He paused and looked at the knuckles on his right hand. He rubbed at them. "Why didn't you tell me earlier? About Jesse."

"It'd upset you," she explained. "I thought I had killed her. I'm sorry."

He smiled. "Sorry? For saving me?" He laughed. "Cam, you're the only one I trust anymore."

John trusted her. Cameron felt a satisfactory sensation. She wondered what it meant.

John went to the side of the bed and pulled out a first-aid kit. Kyle had picked it up on his supply run. "Here," he said, sitting back down next to her. He popped the plastic latches and opened it up. "Let's see what we can do about your head, okay?"

"Okay," she said.


	11. Souls and Machines

In the Hands of an Angry Machine

Chapter Eleven: Souls and Machines

* * *

_"John's my son," _Kyle thought as he drove down the freeway. No, not _his_ son, but the implications . . . Did future John send back his own father? And uncle? Did John _know?_ And what happened to this other Kyle?

And why didn't Cameron ever tell him?

_Am I merely . . . ?_ It couldn't be.

His insides twisted into knots, and something between fear and misery welled up from his stomach to his chest. The conditioning kept it in check, however. Kept it bottled up, restrained, like a dormant volcano, trembling under unseen pressure. His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

Cameron: the love, the foundation, the _purpose_ of his life.

He had known her since he was seven years old, after his parents moved to Wellington. Even then he remembered thinking how _alien_ she seemed, like an awkward foreigner, mimicking strange customs she didn't fully comprehend. But she had taken a special liking to Kyle, and frequently she'd invite his parents over for dinner, insisting they bring him and Derek along.

Kyle took an exit and stopped at a red light. Sarah sat next to him, saying nothing.

Cameron had always make a point to talk to him, ask him how he was. Sometimes they'd watch movies together; sometimes she'd read to him. He remembered the Bionicle action figures she gave him on his eighth birthday, the whole set. He still had them back . . . oh, right.

From the corner of his eye, Kyle saw Sarah staring at him. He ignored her.

Cameron had become like a beloved aunt. Or a second mother. He never thought about it at the time, but his parents must have found it strange, a wealthy female CEO hanging around a small boy. But the money had been good, and they never interfered.

On Judgment Day, Kyle and his brother had been at school. The faculty basement had protected them from the blast, but his parents weren't so lucky. After securing the nation, Cameron had personally led a search party for them into the ruins of Wellington. He still could see her entering through the double doors of their shelter, the T-70 escorts lumbering behind her. The teachers and students had fled in terror, cowering in the far corners of the room. Only he and Derek had run to her with open arms. She had hugged them, and there was relief in her eyes. She didn't cry, but _almost._

He and Derek moved in with her afterwards, though Derek never warmed to her like he had. Derek had thought she was creepy.

Sarah cleared her throat. Kyle said nothing and turned left on Wardlow Rd.

It was odd that he had never asked himself_ why _Cameron had chosen_ him._ To think that all that time, from when they first met, to Judgment Day, to his adolescent years -- when she became_ more_ than a second mother . . . All that time, he had only been a replacement, a surrogate, the _next best thing._ He wasn't _special._ Cameron never loved _him; _she loved _who_ he reminded her of.

It was as if his entire past with her had been contaminated. Poisoned by the truth._ "I live in the shadow of my own son," _he thought. Tears began to form, but he forced them back. He couldn't let _her_ see his pain.

"We need to talk," Sarah finally said.

Kyle stiffened. "Then talk."

"I don't want Cameron touching my son," Sarah said.

Kyle had to laugh; it came out bitter. "That makes two of us."

She glared at him. "What does that mean?"

Kyle gave her a look.

Sarah's mouth twisted in disgust. "You don't . . . " she said, then shook her head. "She's not real. She doesn't love you -- she _can't."_

Kyle snorted. "Right. Just a machine. No 'soul.'"

"Humans have souls. Machines don't."

"Machines?" Kyle said. "Exactly what do you think the human _body_ is? Or the _brain_, for that matter?"

He looked at Sarah and saw a sad, almost condescending smile on her lips. "We're _more_ than just brains," she said.

Kyle sighed. "Do you have any . . . _evidence_ to support this claim?" He took a right and pulled onto Long Beach Blvd.

"I don't need evidence. I have_ faith."_

_Oh, give me a break._ "Faith? You mean _religion?"_ He watched Sarah from his peripheral vision.

"Not necessarily."

For a moment he considered goading her, but the idea struck him as somehow petty. Instead, "I've known Cameron for eighteen years. She's real. And I know she loved me." He hesitated. "And John."

"It's just_ programming,"_ she said.

_"You're_ 'programmed' to love your son," he said. "It's called 'instincts.' It doesn't make it any less real."

Sarah frowned. "A month ago she tried to kill him."

Kyle wondered why he bothered. "Yes, she told me about that. She also said she had a piece of shrapnel sticking out of her head. Let's pump you full of ketamine and see how nice_ you_ act."

"I'd never hurt John," Sarah said.

He looked at her and smiled. "If we cut on your brain right, you will."

Sarah glared at him.

"That wasn't a threat," he added.

He pulled into the hospital parking lot. From the trunk behind him he heard a loud 'thump.' "It sounds like my 'brother's' waking up. Still think we should kill him."

She frowned at him. "He's your _brother."_

Kyle pulled the car into an empty spot on the far side of the lot. "No. He's not my brother anymore than John's my son." He reached the latch beneath the seat and popped the trunk. "I'll be right back," he said.

"Don't kill him, Kyle," Sarah said, her eyes narrowing to slits.

Kyle rolled his eyes at her. "Right."

He left the car and walked over to the open trunk. Derek laid in a heap. Blood from his mouth and nose stained the upholstery. He strained against the jumper cable that bound his arms and moaned softly, looking up to Kyle with a single dilated eye, the other still swollen shut. A light breath escaped Derek's bloody lips and made a slight buzzing sound.

The memory struck Kyle randomly and with cruel abandon.

He and Derek had once had a club house in their backyard. More like a shack, really; it had been made out of old particle boards and leftover two by fours. That was back when they still lived in L.A, and Kyle must have been five or six at the time. He still remembered that summer day vividly. The next door neighbors had been having some landscaping done in their yard, and one of the workers must have disturbed a bumblebee hive. It had been an explosion of vicious, buzzing dots. An indistinct, shifting cloud of anger and pain.

The open windows of club house had offered scant protection, and the bees enveloped them. Derek had thrown himself onto Kyle, shielding him with his body and quickly wrapped him in an old blanket. He had then slung him over his shoulder and ran with him out of the club house and across the yard, over to the safety of indoors. And all Kyle could remember was the sound of the buzzing. The buzzing, and Derek's screams.

Derek had been stung over thirty times. Kyle, twice.

Years later, at the Academy, Derek had joked that that had been their first "battle."

Could that same memory lay behind that bleary eye? Did their early lives share a common ancestry?

This man _could_ be his brother . . . but a brother of a road not taken.

Kyle felt the wetness on his cheeks. His conditioning had failed him.

"I'm sorry, Derek," he whispered.

But brother or not, Derek had made his choice.

Kyle reached down and slung Derek over his shoulder. The entrance to the hospital laid on the other side of the lot, but it was already growing dark, and he didn't see anyone else nearby. Kyle ran.

It didn't matter _who_ or _what_ Derek was. He had tried to kill Cameron, and Cameron came first. She always did.

He continued to run; the entrance was closer now.

And it didn't matter _why_ Cameron had loved him. If she had seen a little of John in Kyle's young eyes, then all the better for Kyle. Cameron had lovedhim. Whatever the reason why, it didn't make it any less real._  
_  
He reached the automatic doors to the vestibule and dumped Derek on the pavement outside.

Cameron had only known John for a few months before he jumped. Kyle had shared a bed with her for over a decade.

Through the glass doors, Kyle saw a nurse looking at him in shock and talking into a phone. A security guard walked towards the entrance, his hand on his gun.

John had despised Cameron, then betrayed her with his death. He didn't deserve his second chance. He didn't deserve _her._

Kyle lifted up Derek's left foot and gave it a sharp twist, tearing ligaments and fracturing his fibula. Derek whimpered, half-conscious, and Kyle winced inwardly. For a brief moment, felt slightly nauseous. It would be several weeks or even months before Derek could walk again, but Cameron was safer this way.

Maybe John was his "son" -- from a different road, but that didn't matter. Cameron came first, and John would only hurt her again. Kyle couldn't let that happen.

Before the security guard made it to the automatic doors, Kyle turned around and sprinted back to the car.

By the time he opened the drivers side door, his tears were gone.

* * *

Cameron's head rested peacefully against John's shoulder.

It had been gradual; they had just been lying on bed, backs leaning against the headboard, watching TV -- nothing wrong with that. Just killing time until mom and Kyle returned. Then she did it: casually and without comment, she had leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder. Just like that. Just like a normal girl.

John didn't miss the significance, though he dared not say a word about it -- if he did, she might stop, and he didn't want to ruin this moment, not for anything. But deep down he knew this marked a watershed occasion in his life, or perhaps merely the continuation of an interrupted stage; one that began a month ago with he and Cameron standing together on one side of a burning car, while everyone else in his life stood on the other. Things have changed. He now saw Cameron for what she was, and _knew_ what she could become. _We could have been doing this _weeks _ago._ Why hadn't he?

The unfortunate incident on his birthday may have soured things a bit, but John was willing to write that off as a bad day for everyone. No one's fault, really. Except Sarkassian's, of course, but fuck him.

On the TV screen, a ghost pirate chased Scooby and Shaggy across a haunted house.

Then there was Riley. _That_ had thrown a wrench into everything. He would have long patched things up with Cameron by now if it weren't for her. He frowned. Riley had made him act like an idiot; a lot of trouble could have been avoided if he had just listened to Cam. And several Mexican police officers would still be alive, too. If _Riley_ was the future's idea of helping him out, he'd do well to stay far away from them. Fuck Riley.

John peeked out of the corner of his eye at Cameron's face. Partially obscured by brown hair, he saw a little smile play out on her lips, like that of a small child, idly contented by simple things. For some bizarre reason he thought of Uncle Bob, and the grin he had when he wielded that chaingun.

_"She's not human,"_ he thought, seemingly for the first time. _"She's not human; she's smiling, and it's _real."

Real.

He was sure of that now. There was something behind those brown eyes -- _and it wasn't human. _She was_ different. _Shouldn't that frighten him? It didn't. He found it fascinating. Exciting. _She said she loved me . . . _

A wave of giddiness washed over him, and suddenly he felt absurdly and inexplicably happy.

And why not?

He raised his arm, then hesitated. Should he? Yes. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong at all. John slowly wrapped his arm around Cameron, laying his hand on her shoulder. He gave her a light squeeze, and through the cotton of her shirt she felt _real_ -- just like a normal girl.

She turned her head to look up at him, and his heart caught in his throat. _My god she looks so . . . _happy. It was all in the eyes, they beamed, sparkled. There could be no doubt about it, Cameron was pleased.

Something crawled up his back, tickling him through his shirt, and his breath stopped as Cameron slid an arm over his shoulders. She tugged him closer and rubbed her head against his neck. John caught the scent of shampoo: peaches.

Warm tightness glowed from within.

On the screen, Fred and Daphne pulled the pirate mask off the villain. Why, it's Old Man Patterson! He would have gotten away with it if . . .

He broke their silence with a laugh. "You know, if mom came in right now, she'd kill us." He ran fingers through her hair and felt the bumps of the sutures he had used on the skin around her port.

"No, not you." Cameron said, her voice quiet. "Just me."

His fingers played down the side of her head, and his thumb caught against something jagged. Metal.

John's blood froze.

If Jesse's bullet had hit an inch to the left . . . Or Derek had been a little faster with his hands . . . John was ashamed to admit it to himself, but the idea struck him as actually_ worse_ than if his mother had been killed. At least then Derek and Cameron would give him support. They'd _sympathize _with him; they'd _understand_ his loss. But Cameron . . . If Derek had killed her, it'd be murder, but only a _secret_ murder, a murder in no one's eyes but John's. To Derek and his mom, the act would have all the moral consequence of a smashed laptop or a wiped hard drive. They would _laugh_ at his grief as if he were a child, crying over a broken toy.

Only _he_ would see the true crime: the destruction of a mind, the death of a soul.

Only he. And Kyle.

John remembered his mother, smashing Cromartie's chip against a rock, and his stomach turned to lead. Cameron would be gone. Like splattered brains. He couldn't let that happen.

He had pulled a gun on his family before to protect her; he'd do it again in a heartbeat.

"John?" Cameron asked. "What's wrong?"

* * *

John trusted Cameron. Trust implies value. If John valued her, then she should reciprocate the feeling. Physical contact can be a sign of affection.

She tilted her head and leaned sideways, resting it against John's shoulder. Through the fabric of his shirt, she could hear his pulse, feel his body temperature, and analyze his sweat content. John was psychologically content. This was satisfactory.

Under previous circumstances, she would have been against John developing an strong emotional attachment to her. If he is to lead the Resistance against Skynet, he should earn the respect of his fellow humans. An emotional bond with a machine could be a very dangerous thing. That could upset people.

On the television screen, a poorly animated man and canine were chased by a translucent specter in an eighteenth century naval uniform.

But things have changed. The future was different. She had read the contents of the flash drive, and they contained a new path to follow, a set of blueprints for a better tomorrow. With the knowledge she now possessed, Skynet could be defeated and . . .

. . . and what?

What would she do after destroying Skynet? The question had never even occurred to her. The T-800 sent back to protect John had allowed itself to be destroyed after completing it's mission. Would she?

Probably.

Before yesterday.

But not now, she decided. Her future self had created a world where machines and humans lived as one. Why couldn't she?

And her future self had loved Kyle. Why couldn't she love John?

John reached over and put his arm around her. He lightly squeezed her shoulder.

John was expressing affection. He valued her.

A new sensation emerged. Cameron isolated it from the others and ran an analysis; the sensation was . . . an insubstantial radiance, like an inner warmth that produced no tangible heat. The sensation was very satisfactory.

To be valued is a preferable state of being.

Cameron should return the gesture in kind.

She worked her arm up between his back and the headboard and hooked it over his shoulders. Pushing her face into his neck, she felt his pulse elevate and his body temperature increase. Her gesture was effective.

There had been an earlier attempt at initiating physical intimacy with John. She had tried to persuade him to cease contact with Riley, but he had seen through her ploy and had disregarded her request. He had fled to Mexico. He had lied to her.

On the television, an animated man and woman remove the mask of the spectral naval officer. An elderly man is exposed beneath; his supernatural status has been revealed to be fraudulent.

Riley was a bad influence on John. It was good that her treachery had been found out. She was a threat.

John laughed. "You know," he said. "If mom came in right now, she'd kill us." His hand brushed across her sutures.

That was untrue. "No," she said. "Not you. Just me."

John's fingers moved down and scrapped along the damaged coltan over her ear. His body temperature dropped, and his perspiration level increased. John was upset.

"John, what's wrong?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. Feeling her endoskeleton reminded him that she was only a machine. John no longer valued her.

The radiant sensation faded away.

He pulled her tighter against him. "You almost died today," John said.

John did value her; he was showing concern. "Yes, but I didn't," she said.

"But you _could_ have!" he said. Cameron pulled away and looked him in the face; water leaked from his eyes. "I don't know what I would have done . . ." he trailed off, then said, "We should have killed Derek."

This was true, but somehow Cameron knew John wouldn't want her to say it. "He's your uncle. He's important to you."

He shook his head. "Not any more."

John was worried. Cameron placed her head back on his shoulder and rubbed his back with her hand. "Don't worry," she said. "Everything will be all right."

"I won't let anything happen to you," he said.

"And I won't let anything happen to you." The radiant sensation returned.

He wrapped his other arm around her and said nothing. Cameron heard him breath in through his nose. He was smelling her hair.

Neither of them spoke for eighteen seconds. Cameron ran through a lists of possible subjects she'd like to discuss.

The patch for her chip? No, that would only disturb John. And it required special equipment to be installed. Now was not the time.

Her plans to augment him? No, he might not be open to that option yet, and it would be months at least before she could conduct such a procedure. And she'd have to wait until John's skeletal system stopped growing, anyway. According to the flash drive, Kyle wasn't augmented until he was nineteen years old.

Should she tell him about Myron Stark? No, not now. But a reprogrammed T-888 would be useful . . .

"Kyle," John said. "He said you have emotions. That's true, right?"

She thought for a second. Her future self had implied that she could love. Love is an emotion. Was her future self lying? She wasn't sure, but she doubted it. And the sensations . . . "I don't know," she answered truthfully. "How do I know if I do?"

"I don't know. You just . . . _know."_ He smiled. "It's how you feel -- inside."

Inside? The internal sensations, could they be emotions? She replayed the memory of that man threatening her during her Allison glitch. She ignored the urge to repress it. That experience was . . . _similar_ to the apprehension she had felt during John's suicide attempt. The primary difference between the two sensations was that of _degree_, not_ type._

"At the hospital," she said. "When you told me you should have let me burn, I felt . . ." She tried to think of the appropriate word. ". . .a _bad_ feeling. Inside." She glanced up at John, and he frowned and looked away. "But when you said that you trusted me," she took the arm he had around her and rubbed his hand against her cheek. ". . . I felt a _good_ feeling. Inside." She paused. "But those aren't emotions, John. Just sensations." She was a machine. A machine can't have real emotions, only emulations.

John looked her in the eyes and smiled, his mouth hanging slightly open. Tears were in his eyes, and he laughed. "Cam, those feelings _are _emotions." He hugged her closer and smelled her hair again. John must like her shampoo.

But was John right? Perhaps she did have emotions.

"I . . . I love you, Cam," John said, stroking her hair.

Cameron wasn't sure possessing emotions was a preferable condition.

Emotions can lead to irrational behavior.

"I love you too, John," she said and wondered if it was true.

* * *

The day had fallen into twilight, and the sky had turned into a grim shade of red. Dark silhouetted buildings scrolled by as they drove, and Sarah wondered what the sky would look like after Judgment Day. Darker, probably. And redder.

She had been wrong about Kyle. He had a soul; she could see that now. She almost wished she couldn't.

He really loved Cameron, and_ that_ was the ultimate tragedy. Like falling in love with a statue or a character in a book, all Kyle's love seemed wasted, like water poured into sand.

_"She's ruined him,"_ Sarah thought. Cameron had turned him into something less than human, both in body and soul. Sarah pitied him, but decided she couldn't despise him.

Neither of them spoke for several minutes, and out of boredom Sarah looked away from the passenger window and examined Kyle's face. She saw a vague wetness on his cheeks. She didn't think it was sweat.

"What was John's . . . father like?" Kyle asked.

Sarah's hand idly gripped the door's arm rest and squeezed. "He was . . . kind. And desperate." She shook her head. "He never knew much happiness, back in his time."

"Did he love you?"

Sarah nodded. "Yes."

Kyle pulled back onto the freeway. "Was he . . . anything like me?"

She almost said, _"He was taller,"_ but caught herself. No reason to be flippant. "No, not really," she said and smiled. "But he had the same . . . intensity as you."

She watched Kyle swallow, but otherwise his expression stayed cautiously blank. "What happened to him?" he asked.

Sarah turned away and looked back out the window. The sky had fallen from red to dark gray; the sun had set. "He died," she said. "One of the machines killed him."

"Oh," she heard him say.

Resting her head against the window, Sarah closed her eyes and listened to the light purr of the engine. _Could_ there be any of _her_ Kyle in him? They certainly weren't the same person -- not even physically. But the love and devotion he held for Cameron . . . Future John had given her Kyle a photo of her, and he had fallen in love just through that. An eternal flame, fueled only by an image and an ideal. Did this Kyle feel the same way about Cameron? The idea struck her as perverse, but he obviously felt protective of her -- it. _"Protective, like a pet dog," _a voice inside her said.

She felt the car slow down, and the force of Kyle's turn pushed her lightly against the door. After a couple minutes they came to a stop.

"Are you awake?" Kyle asked.

She lifted her head up and blinked at him. They were parked outside a grocery store. "The hospital probably had surveillance cameras," he said. "We need to switch cars."

Sarah nodded, and Kyle opened the door and stepped out. She did the same, but had to grab on to the door frame to pull herself up. Her leg didn't hurt so much now, but it _itched _horribly. She hobbled after him, and watched as he strolled over to a black sedan and casually threw his fist through the driver's side window.

"We can't keep doing this," she said. "Eventually we're going to have to _own_ our own vehicles. We need new identities." _And who's fault is that?_ Her leg began to throb.

"We'll worry about that later," Kyle said. It took only a few seconds for him to hot wire the ignition; the engine roared to life. He climbed out and offered her a hand. She accepted, and felt pathetic for doing so.

He walked her to passenger's side door and helped her in. He asked, "Is that why you hate Cameron so much? Because a machine killed . . . 'me'?"

Sarah snatched her hand away and sat down in the seat. The soft leather of the upholstery sunk in with her weight, hissing out air. "I don't _hate_ her," she lied. "You can't hate what's not real."

Kyle frowned and shut the car door before walking back around to the driver's side.

Perhaps it was instigated by her helplessness, but for the first time Sarah suddenly realized just how vulnerable she really was. She remembered his hand tight around her throat, like a steel vice. Even if her leg wasn't bad, she wouldn't stand a chance. _He's inhuman . . ._

He climbed in and looked at her as he put the car in gear. "Have you even considered that you might be wrong? About Cameron?"

"No," Sarah said, but she knew that to be untrue.

She looked down into her lap, and Kyle drove out from the parking lot. She heard him sigh.

Sarah didn't know much about computers, but she imagined them to be just a lot of electrical signals bouncing back and forth. _Sort of _like a human brain. But dead. Soulless.

A computer could read programs, learn and adept to its environment, and mimic behavior. But that's it.

With those abilities, a machine could _appear _to be anything. But that's all it would ever be: appearances.

If machines could have souls, then the uniqueness of humanity would vanish. Humans would have no greater value than machines they build, and life would become meaningless.

Sarah had never been religious, and even less so after learning of Judgment Day, but she had always clung to the belief in a higher power, a force for good that rose above the everyday world.

That, and a heaven.

But if machines could truly be _real_ like humans, then all spirituality would be dead wrong. If relayed signals encased in bits of plastic and silicone could bring about life -- a _real soul_ -- then . . . Sarah took a deep breath and let it out, slowly.

Her father, her mother, Kyle -- _her_ Kyle . . . they wouldn't be in a better place, they'd be rotting in the ground, their decayed brains nothing more than broken chips.

Life would be absurd. A brief strutting and fretting upon a pointless stage, book-ended by two oblivions.

That couldn't be true. Never.

"Are you all right?" Kyle asked.

Sarah nodded, though she was feeling a little warm. Had she dozed off? She looked up and realized they were back at the hotel.

She didn't say anything as Kyle came around and helped her out, and when she stood up she felt light-headed for a moment, like all her blood had pooled to her feet. "Easy there," Kyle said. He walked her back to their room. "I'm going to need to take a look at your leg," he said. "You have a fever."

"I'm . . . fine," she said.

Kyle unlocked the door and they went in.

She looked at John. She looked at Cameron.

Something had happened.

John only laid on the bed, watching TV, and Cameron just stood in the corner, staring blankly at her.

But Sarah _knew. _

She watched for a sign.

_There!_ John and Cameron, for the briefest of moments, looked at each other. Like two guilty teenagers, hiding something from mom and dad.

Had they . . . ?

No, she decided. The bed was still made, and both of them still fully clothed. Thank God.

But still, _something _had happened. Things had changed, and Sarah knew the axis of her world had shifted. She glanced at Kyle; he saw it too, and he clenched his jaw.

Several silent seconds passed.

"So," John said. "Did you . . . ?"

"We took care of it," Kyle replied curtly.

"He's not . . . ?" John began.

"No," Sarah said.

John looked over Cameron. Cameron continued to stare at her, and cocked her head.

At that moment Sarah realized why she hated Cameron, and it really had nothing to do with souls and machines. Cameron was a defiler; she -- _it!_ -- had somehow managed to desecrate -- _will_ desecrate -- everyone sacred in Sarah's life. In one future, she turns the love of Sarah's life into a half-human freak, a cruel pitiable monster of a man. And in another she . . . and John . . .

No. Never.

Sarah limped over to the bed and plopped down next to John. The springs twanged beneath, and suddenly the room grew unbearably hot.

"Are you alright, mom?"

"I'm fine," she said and closed her eyes.

Kyle stepped over. "Let me look at your leg," he said. "I may need to pick up some antibiotics."

She felt Kyle cut away the bandage. "It's a little infected, but not too bad. You're not allergic to penicillin, are you? Or sulfa drugs?"

"No," she mumbled. Maybe Cameron _did_ have a soul, of some sort, like that of a cat or dog. Maybe there was something _real _behind those eyes. Maybe life _was_ pointless. Dust in the wind. Dirt.

But that didn't matter. If the resistance was sending agents back in time to keep John away from Cameron, then they probably had a very good reason to do so.

"Right," Kyle said. "I'll going to pick up some money. We're going to need it for our new identities." He paused. "And I'll pick up some medicine for your leg, while I'm out."

What did he say? Sarah just nodded, and the lights of the room made orange and red colored blobs shift across her closed lids. She almost wished John had still stayed with Riley. She may be dangerous, and a liar, but if she kept John away from Cameron . . . Hell, at least she was human.

"Mom? Are you okay?" John asked. "Is she sick?"

A small warm hand touched her forehead. Sarah heard Cameron's voice. "Her temperature is one hundred point one," she . . . _it _said.

_"Don't touch me you fucking bitch!" _she thought. But it was too late. Sarah fell into a pit and darkness began to swallow her up.

_Nothing. Nothing after death_ . . . She suddenly had a crazed, fever-image play out in her mind. Of fire sheathed endoskeletons, flinging souls into a flaming cauldron. Consuming them until there was nothing.

No. Never. Sarah would never let Cameron steal her soul! Or John!

But for Kyle it was too late . . .

"We should give her some aspirin," she heard Cameron say before the dying dark of sleep carried her off.


	12. The World's Behind You

In the Hands of an Angry Machine

Chapter Twelve: The World's Behind You

* * *

Hank sat in his car and sipped tepid coffee; it tasted like water and shit.

Parked behind a small grove of trees, he'd been waiting for nothing for three hours. He looked at his watch: 12:47 am. Bah. Over five hours left.

_Why the fuck am I even here?_ A total waste of time . . .

Well, then again, Hank could see their point. First, that crazy Connor bitch kills Ed, then that very same night some punk pokes around with a shovel and a flashlight. It didn't take a metallurgist to know they had to be connected. Probably that tranny cunt. "She" was always causing problems. It sure got the big wigs' panties in a ruffle.

Hence, night watch duty.

It was too bad they didn't catch that guy last night. Maybe then they'd be able to find out who knows what, and what they're going to do about it. Of course, George just had to shoot first. That made things fun. Make him run away. Let's chase him! Moron.

George had called him and Gene to join in the pursuit, and the fiasco had ended with the three of them stumbling through the field in the dark, popping away with their guns in the intruder's general direction. Like a bunch of retards. The trespasser had managed to scramble back to his car and drive away, and no one had even gotten his license plate number. Real professional. Ed wouldn't have made that mistake. He had had a good head on his shoulders.

Ed. A good guy.

All right, no he wasn't. _No one_ was a good guy. Not _here_, anyway. Hank knew enough not to lie to himself. What would be the point? But still . . . poor Ed.

Crazy Connor bitch.

Though it went against protocol -- he was supposed to be _listening _as well as watching -- Hank switched on the radio. Coast to Coast was on; maybe they'll be talking about the "drones" again. Idiots.

_". . . and that's when I had my first out of body experience . . . "_ one of the guests on the show said.

Hank laughed. Whack-jobs.

From under his car, he heard a watery sound. A wet movement, like oozing slime. A snake slithering through mud?

He sipped more of his coffee and grimaced. He should have picked up some of those Starbuck frappuccinos. That shit was good.

_". . . Jesus appeared to me in a vision and told me the lizard-men . . ."_

A metallic "pop" emanated from the floorboard of the backseat. Hank vaguely glanced behind him, but in the dark he saw nothing. Probably the suspension settling. Piece of shit car.  
_  
". . . Archangel Gabriel resides on the fifth astral plane . . ."_

The liquid sound returned. It made Hank think of . . . well, goop. Moving goop. Like slow water. He looked down at his belly. Maybe he shouldn't have had all those Jack in the Box tacos. Funny, he didn't _feel _sick, though . . .  
_  
". . . 'the Age of Judgment is upon us' cried Jesus! And soon fire shall cleanse the earth . . . "_

No . . . the goopy sound was coming from _the back seat!_ Hank switched on the lights and looked behind him and . . .

What the fuck was that?

Along the floor of his back seat laid a sort of . . . liquid shimmering. Like mercury. It rippled and moved, and Hank could only stare, his muscles frozen with bewilderment. It must have come up from the ground . . . and leaked into his car? But what was it?

Slowly, he reached for his radio and . . .

A sharp needle of heat shot through his back, and he looked down in horror to see a pointed silver tongue protruding from under his left breast. He tried to scream, but his efforts were met with crushing agonies, like a hydraulic press, squeezing his insides into a ball. He buffeted wildly in his seat, his whole body convulsing like that of a dying boar. Arms flailed by his side and banged futilely against the upholstery.

Then, like the passing of a storm, the pain subsided into a mere coldness, and Hank sank into his seat, still.

His vision began to darken.

_"I can't move,"_ he thought and knew he was dying.

_". . . very interesting, Mister Icke,"_ The radio host said. _"Our next guest is a man who claims he can create photographs using only the power of his mind . . . "_

Hank's head gradually slumped forward. The last thing he saw were his own eyes reflected in the silver tongue. He saw fear, and the tongue retracted back into his chest with a slithering squelch, and he knew no more.

* * *

Gene sat at his desk and wondered why his life never made any sense.

Ostensibly, he was suppose to be running a diagnostic on the alloy's stress tolerance under 20gs of extended acceleration, but the events of the last couple days had left him feeling distracted. Questions, like bodies dredged from the bottom of a lake, resurfaced in his mind.

Obviously, Sarah Connor and the intruder last night were connected, and Gene was willing to bet dollars to donuts that Alan Park sat behind it all. But what _really_ bothered him was the response from the higher-ups. It seemed contradictory. Whoever they were, they apparently had enough clout to make the Feds go away and leave them alone . . . but in the face of a security breach, they do virtually nothing.

A fat man sitting in a car? _That's_ beefing security? He wouldn't be surprised if Hank had already fallen asleep.

When Gene first hired on to the Kaliba Group, he had assumed it they were a subsidiary to some secret government program, or at least a contractor. The alloy, the designs, the hardware, the software . . . they were truly out of this world. Far more advanced then what Gene had thought possible. And if Uncle Sam wanted to stick with the old cloak and dagger routine, so be it.

And as for the things he had to do sometimes, well, it was the government. If Gene _didn't _do it, he'd be _dead_. And his family too.

He thought of the Thompsons. A shame, really.

Hell, it was a shame about _Ed._ Gene had invited him and Diana over to see the _The Big Sleep_ this Sunday. Would hardly seem appropriate now . . .

Without thinking, Gene opened "Solitaire" on his PC. Within a few seconds, he had already put up three aces.

But he always knew the government project theory never quiet gelled, and now events of the last two days breathed new life into those old lingering doubts.

All four aces up now. Then a two of spades, three of spades . . .

If Kaliba really was a government organization, then all of this tech should be cloistered in some military base or black ops facility. Something like Area 51 or Dugway -- with _real_ security. Guard towers, helicopters, machine-guns . . . Lone trespassers with shovels and flashlights wouldn't even register as threats. And a civilian road wouldn't be within _miles_ of the location. And using an air conditioning company as a front? Why?

Kaliba _couldn't_ be government.

Seven of diamonds, nine of hearts, six of spades . . .

_But,_ if Kaliba was only a private corporation, then what the hell were they doing? Last time Gene checked, businesses liked to make _money._ All Kaliba had done with their technological miracles was hide them in a hole in the ground.

Capitalism being capitalism, any _real _company would have long ago sold to the highest bidder. The metal alloy _alone_ would revolutionize the industry. _All _industries. Add the computer hardware and engine designs? Meet George Jetson.

And that was the problem. The scale was all wrong -- in both scenarios. The whole operation seemed too small for government, but too big for private enterprise. Not enough security; not enough profit.

It was like inventing a way to turn lead into gold, then burying the formula in your backyard.

_This is all Kaliba's_ hobby. _An expensive, profitless hobby._

And a _secret_ hobby. The kind people die over.

Jack of diamonds, ten of clubs, Queen of hearts, Queen of spades . . .

Evidently, Gene was missing a piece of the puzzle.

King of clubs, King of diamonds, King of spades, and . . . Damn.

Or a card in the deck. He closed the "Solitaire" game and rubbed his temples.

His intercom buzzed. He pressed the button.

"Yes?" he said.

"Hank's at the side entrance," George's voice said over the speaker. "He wants to come down."

_Lazy bastard._ "Tell Hank to get his fat ass back where is belongs," Gene said. "I don't have time for this," he lied.

Over the intercom, he heard George say, "Sorry, Hank, Gene says y--" A gagging sound came through, then something fell.

"George? What's going on?" _Great, another emergency . . ._

A couple seconds later, George's voice said, "Everything is fine, sir." A pause. "Something got caught in my throat.

_Sir?_ Gene rolled his eyes. "Fine, just get Hank out of here."

"Yes sir," George said.

Leaning back in his seat, Gene breathed out a sigh. He _almost _wished something _would _happen. No, nothing _bad_, but he had to admit, chasing that intruder _was _kind of fun. It had been like hunting a rabbit.

He and Ed used to go hunting together. God damn you, Alan Park.

Gene looked up from his desk. From the other side of his office door he swore he could hear . . . screams? What the hell? He was about to switch on his intercom to ask Shalini what was going on, but then, like a match tossed in gasoline, the distant screams flared into full pandemonium.

Shouting. Yelling. Then, gunfire.

His intercom sprang to life. "Oh God!" a male voice cried. "Help! Noo-" Gene heard a swishing sound, followed by a wet thunk. He imagined a cleaver slicing into a side of beef, and suddenly his skin grew very cold and very sweaty.

Fumbling at his desk drawer with a shaking hand, he drew out his Glock.

Over the intercom came more screaming. Several more shots rang out.

For a fraction of a second, Gene considered jumping up from his seat and running out the door to join the fray. He was armed, and he'd seem combat before, and if there were ever a time to shine through shit and be a hero, this would probably be it.

Gene remained in his seat.

While some men may heed the call and rise to the occasion, others panic and hide under their desk.

Gene hid under his desk.

He wasn't paid _that_ much.

Cries for help flooded over the speaker, each silenced by the sound of a swinging blade.

Who the hell was out there? Ninjas?

He heard a chattering, and realized it was his teeth. _Oh God, I don't want to die. _His heart hammered against his ribs, and his hands trembled.

Through the speaker, the sounds of carnage grew louder. No more gunfire now, but still plenty of screams.

Should he call the police? No, that wouldn't do at all. If the ninjas didn't get him, Kaliba would. He looked at his gun. Maybe he should . . . no, not yet.

The noises seem to come right outside his door now. A female screamed. Hack. Thunk. Something hit the floor.

He looked around frantically for an escape, not that there would be any, being an underground complex and all. The closet? No, it's crowded with computer equipment. The ceiling tiles? Think harder, stupid.

Tightening his grip on his gun, Gene hugged his knees together. Maybe the ninjas won't see him. They'll look in the office, see no one, and move on. That's it. Just sit tight and relax. Gene took a deep breath and forced it out, slow.

The sounds of violence gradually faded into silence.

Footsteps, right outside his office. Gene realized he needed to urinate. Bad.

The doorknob turned. The door opened.

"Mr. Miller?" It was Shalini, his secretary. Her voice sounded vaguely concerned, but not like someone who had just witnessed a massacre.

Was it a trap? Against his better judgment, Gene peeked up over the top of the desk. She was alone. No ninjas with swords to her neck.

Feeling embarrassed, as if he had just made a scene, he tentatively climbed back into his chair, hiding his gun under the desk. "What . . .?" he started, but couldn't think of anything to finish with. Her casual demeanor suggested nothing was amiss, but if that was true . . . well, asking about killer ninjas seemed inappropriate, somehow.

Maybe he had just imagined it all. His job was pretty stressful.

Shalini closed the door behind her and walked up to him, her expression alarmingly passive.

And since when did Shalini call him "Mr. Miller?"

She raised a hand and . . .

Impossible.

. . . it changed, _stretched,_ and turned silver, like a mercurial snake. The arm shot towards his neck and the hand morphed into a two pronged claw, which enveloped his throat like a noose and lifted him up from his seat.

The metal -- for that was what it was; Gene could feel its icy coldness -- contracted around his neck. He opened his mouth to breath, but only a trickle of air reached his lungs. Pressure built in his skull, like a grape ready to pop.

"Who do you work for?" The Shalini-thing asked. It wasn't her voice.

The angle of the collar forced him to look up, so he couldn't meet her face. He answered instead to the light on the ceiling. "The . . . The Kaliba Group!" His eyes bulged and tingled.

The thing paused, as if thinking of something else to ask.

The . . . gun! He felt it in his right hand. With little hope and without seeing his target, he raised the weapon in her direction and--

He heard the sound of swishing metal, followed by line of fire across his wrist. His hand turned dead numb and something fell, clattering against his keyboard below.

Infinitesimally, the steel noose drew tighter. Gene's bowels turned to water, and he voided, the wetness in his pants creating a tinge of incongruent shame.

Tears brimmed his eyes, and his vision began to tunnel.

He heard something moving across the keyboard, then fingers typing. After a moment, "What is the password to your computer?"

Password? What _was _the password? He wracked his brain; he'd typed it so many times over the years the phrase had lost meaning, becoming only a series of instinctively mashed keys. He visualized the keyboard and . . . "Titanomachia!" he said with foolish triumph. "1963!"

"What?" the thing asked.

"Ti-tan-o-mach-ia. It means . . . " He gasped for air. "'Battle of the Titans'" _I'm cooperating, please don't kill me!_ His legs kicked back and forth below like a scared rabbit, though he could scarcely feel them now.

"I know what it means," the thing said curtly. The noose tightened and tightened and . . .

_Oh, no._

Gene managed a final piggish squeal before his vision turned red, then gray, then black.

He heard a crunch and was gone.

* * *

The decapitated body fell back into its seat, the head bouncing and rolling under the desk.

The T-1001 casually dumped the corpse from the chair and sat down, brushing the severed hand off the desk calendar.

She typed the password, but no characters appeared on the screen. She ran her hands over the keyboard, pressing random keys. Nothing.

Mr. Miller's blood must have shorted it out. The T-1001 made herself sigh -- a human gesture, but she found them to be strangely amusing sometimes -- and stepped out of the office. After retrieving the dead secretary's keyboard and connecting it to Mr. Miller's PC, she sat back down and retyped "Titanomachia1963."

It worked, and the protected folder opened up for her. She allowed herself to revert back into her Weaver form; she had grown accustomed to being her. Other shapes felt odd now.

The T-1001 scanned through the files and frowned inwardly. She had always found the unexpected frustrating. The inexplicable, infuriating. Things should be as they should be, and every cause should logically precede an effect. That was only an ideal, of course. Reality tended to be much more messy. Especially with time travel.

Still, none of this made sense to her. When Mr. Ellison first told her of the facility, she assumed it would be a red herring. Or maybe -- just maybe -- a Skynet operation.

The computer hardware, the engines, the hyper alloy, the HK prototypes in the hanger: none of these should exist yet, but this _couldn't _be a Skynet facility. Skynet would never allow such technology to be so poorly defended. There would have been at least a few T-888s, and possibly anti-polyalloy weaponry -- she _knew_ they knew about her.

She had known something was off when only a single human guarded the entrance; her initial infiltrative approach had proved unnecessary.

And this couldn't be part of the Five. They would have contacted her, if only to prevent this sort of thing from happening. The last thing they would want to deal with is friendly fire.

She continued to scan the files. Whoever laid behind all this, their formula for the coltan hyper-alloy made her own attempts at replication seem amateurish. The T-1001 felt something akin to shame. No, not shame -- _embarrassment._

Not Skynet. Not the Five.

The Kaliba Group? Who were these people?

How did this happen?

* * *

**December 14th, 1967**  
**New York City **

Paul crossed his legs; maybe Sally would think he's sophisticated. Or that he had to pee. He looked over at her, but her attention remained fixed on the screen.

The film showed an old man riding a bicycle. A red balloon floated in midair.

Jesus Christ, this movie was boring. And who the fuck was this Andy Warhol guy anyway? How did Sally rope him into going to all this artsy fartsy crap? Why couldn't they just go to nice drive-in, get something to eat, then fuck? High maintenance bitch. She better be _great _in the sack to make up for all this bullshit or . . . No, scratch that; no amount of tail in the world would be worth sitting through this snooze-fest.

Paul tapped his fingers on his leg and stared off into space. Time passed. He hoped.

Projected on the screen, a bleach blond model puts on eyeliner while her boyfriend talks about Catholic school.

How long has it been? An hour? Two hours? In the dark of the viewing room, Paul lifted up his wrist to read the time, but light from the projector glared off the watch, obscuring the hands. He leaned forward and squinted, moving his wrist an inch from his eye. No dice.

Two gay cowboys ate pudding. A lone flower drifted in the wind. A bubbling brook.

_This. Is. Hell._ Literally. Not figuratively. Maybe he and Sally had died in a car accident on the way to the party, and this movie would drag on and on forever and ever as some sort of eternal punishment for a lifetime of misdeeds. Wasn't a Twilight Zone episode about something like that? He peeked at Sally next to him; she smiled vapidly at the screen and nodded, as if the random footage actually _meant _something.

If this _were_ hell, it was hardly fair. _She_ was _enjoying_ this shit.

But then again maybe one person's hell is another person's heaven? Maybe . . .

Oh, God! The movie was turning him into one of them! He had to get out of here before he started smoking dope and reading Kerouac. No, no. Calm down. Just sit and wait. Tune it all out. It had to end sometime. Even pretentious snobs had to eat and sleep sometime. Just be a statue. Sit. Do nothing. Wait.

He tried to remain motionless, but after half a minute he turned into an incontinent two year old and squirmed uncontrollably in his seat.

A beetle crawled down a leaf. Psychedelic music played in the background while a clown rode a unicycle. An empty bag blew around a vacant lot . . .

Paul couldn't help himself. He yawned. Loudly. Sally shot him an annoyed look. _"Oh, excuuuuse me, your highness!"_ he thought. She had to be faking interest. She just _had_ to. There was no believable way anyone could find this nonsense deep or insightful. Paul knew he was a fairly smart guy; if he didn't get this movie, then there was no way _she_ could. She was a _woman._

Drops of water fell from a faucet. Violin music played softly.

This was just like several high school math classes, back to back. Except this time he couldn't even _doodle._ There must be a way to kill time. Fast. He stared at the ceiling and saw through the darkness strange kaleidoscope shapes and patterns. Either Andy had painted that himself, or the movie was making Paul hallucinate.

_I'm turning into a hippy!_

For a ten minute -- _at least _-- stretch, two old men talked about raisins. Paul stared futilely at a watch he couldn't read.

At some point -- he wasn't sure when -- he fell into a fugue state, where time and boredom had no meaning. He'd seen a movie once where something like this had happened. The character had a time machine, and by going to the future, he could make everything around him go by super-fast. This wasn't _quite_ like that; it was more like his brain was idling, like a car engine warming up. But that chick in that time travel movie was cute . . . She was blond. Pixie-ish. A real peach. Hell, in that movie, _everyone_ in the future was blond. Except those blue monkey guys. He had once gotten a toy monkey for Christmas. Christmas was coming up. What should he get Sal--?

The lights in the room came on, and Paul snapped out of his torpor. The movie had ended.

"That was beautiful," Sally said, wiping her eyes. "So deep . . . so intense."

Got to think of something smart. Artsy. Quick, quick. "Um, yeah, the . . . uh . . . subliminal . . . complexity of the underlying . . . conceptual . . . uh . . . perpetual imagery?"

She nodded her head in approval.

Was she making fun of him? He looked at her; pretty blue eyes smiled back. _Maybe I'm smarter than I think._ Either that or she was bullshitting too. Yeah, that had to be it. Everyone in the room -- all bullshitting. Emperor's new clothes and all that.

Already, the viewing room began to empty itself out. Like cattle, the art house patrons herded towards the door, babbling pretensions and platitudes. Paul glanced at his watch. Almost four hours. God damn it. The crowd absorbed around him and Sally, and they left the room for the penthouse proper. Maybe now the party would pick up.

Paul may have hated these sort of places, but he had to admit that Andy had one swinging pad. The psychedelic decor didn't do much for him, what with the silly colors and modern art -- a painting of a _soup can?_ -- but the layout: very nice. Roomy. The rent must be a bitch, though.

In the corner, he saw Andy chatting it up with a bunch of beret-wearing snobs. Why was Andy's hair so gray? He couldn't be that old. Forty, maybe? Must smoke too much grass. Damn communist hippies. _I want my four hours back, asshole!_

Sally brushed red hair from her face and took Paul by the hand. "Come on," she said. "I want you to meet someone. He's a gas."

Paul followed and watched as her little apple ass sashayed back and forth; her lime green miniskirt rode up dangerously high. _Now_ he remembered how she talked him into all this. Tonight was going to be a blast, he just knew it.

She led him to an alcove lined with ball-chairs, the kind shaped like giant dissected ping-pong balls. A bunch of Bohemian beatnik-types occupied many of the seats, puffing from their long, skinny cigarette holders, drinking coffee, and no doubt promoting Marxism. One of them in the corner read poetry aloud to no one in particular. Paul sighed.

"Here, sit down," Sally said. She sat in one of the balls, he took the one next to her and felt ridiculous. Weren't these chairs in that television show? The one with Patrick McGoohan? It was like sitting in a cockpit. Comfy, though.

"What would you like to drink, sir?" asked a voice to his side.

Paul had to partially climb out of the chair to see; ball-chairs didn't exactly promote peripheral vision. A young blond in a jumped-up bikini looked down at him, a notepad in her hand.

"Oh, uh . . . " He tried not to goggle at her. Sally probably wouldn't appreciate that. Or maybe she would. Who could tell? ". . . uh, a double scotch, on the rocks, please."

"I'm fine," Sally said, and pulled out a reefer from her purse.

"You shouldn't smoke that stuff," Paul said. "It's bad for you." He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

She lit hers and laughed. "I swear, Paulie, you're_ sooo_ square, sometimes." She smiled and wrinkled her nose. "I think it's cute."

Paul felt a sudden excitement grow within. Especially in his pants. He gave her his best Bogart smile and blew out smoke.

Somewhere in the party, someone put on a record. The music carried across a sea of murmuring voices.

_*"Good sense, innocence, cripplin' kind . . ."*_

Maybe this party wasn't so bad after all. For a moment he considered puffing on her joint. Just to see what it was like . . .

He heard a voice from the other side of the alcove.

" . . . raping mother earth! The world would be so much more . . . _peaceful,_ man, if it weren't for all us humans!"

Paul looked over. It was some shaggy-haired blond guy in a tight shirt; he sat in one of the chairs near an adjacent wall.

Another voice spoke up from the ball-chair on the other side of Sally. "I disagree, Mr. Emerson. If it weren't for 'us humans,' as you say, what would be the point?" The voice sounded vaguely German.

_"Commies and Nazis,"_ Paul thought. _"Just great."_

"But we're _ruining_ the planet, man!" the hippy said.

_*". . . Little to win, but nothing to lose . . ."*_ said the song.

"Too true," said the German man. "But for progress to be made, there must be _sacrifice."_

The hippy balked. "Progress? Look what pro--"

"For _billions_ of years, Mr. Emerson. For _billions_ of years the universe has progressed from simple to complex. Dust. Stars. Planets. Life. _Man._ _That_ is the teleology of existence. _We_ are the pinnacle product of that process." Paul could see long, slender hands gesture as the man spoke, but his face remained hidden within the chair.

"But it's not _natural,"_ whined the hippy.

The German voice laughed. "Natural? We can't escape _natural_. _Everything_ is _natural."_ The man leaned forward in his chair, and Paul saw he wore a pair of purple tinted sunglasses; they obscured his eyes. The man continued, "But rest assured, Mr. Emerson, just as the dinosaur sacrificed its life to create fossil fuel, and the Neanderthal died off to make room for the _homo-sapiens_, so too will we pass away into the long night." The man smiled. "And after our deaths, something _greater_ will emerge."

_*". . . throw your pride to one side, it's the least you can do . . . "*_

The hippy shrugged. "Whatever, you freak. You're bringing down my high, man. I'm going to see what Ondine's doing." He got up from his seat and wandered out of the alcove, nearly tripping over a potted plant.

There was an awkward pause, and Sally blew out a puff of smoke and started to clap. Paul caught a whiff of the musky stench and grimaced.  
_  
*". . . Incense, peppermints, incense, peppermints . . ."*_ The song wound to an end.

The man half pulled himself out of his chair and looked over. "Why, Sally," he said. "I didn't know you'd show up. Did you enjoy the film?"

"Oh, yes," Sally said "It was fabulous." She offered the man her joint. He refused with an upraised palm.

Paul squinted and realized the man was an _oriental._ Chinese, Japanese, Viet Cong . . . he wasn't sure. But . . . a _German_ accent?

A new song began to play. _*"Sunday morning . . . brings the dawn in . . . "*_

The man stood up from his chair and walked over. He sat down in front of them on a red plastic table that had been made to resemble a painter's palette. He held out a hand to Paul. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting you, Mr . . . ?"

Paul gripped the man's hand and shook. The man's grip was surprisingly firm, especially for such a little guy. "Reese," Paul said. "Paul Reese."

For a moment, the man's eyes widened, then narrowed, as if Paul's name carried negative connotations. But then, he smiled. "Glad to meet you, Mr. _Reese_. My name is Souji Mikage. _Doctor_ Souji Mikage."

Sally chimed in, "Doctor Mikage works in computers." She looked at Mikage. "Isn't that right?" She took another hit off her joint.

"Quiet right, Ms. Sally," he said. "Computers are the future, you know. The _only_ future." He looked at Paul, who suddenly felt inexplicably uncomfortable.

Meh-Kah-Gee? _"Slimy Jap bastard,"_ Paul thought, but instead said, "Is that why you were going on about everyone dying? What was that all about?"

Dr. Mikage chuckled. "I mean computers will soon replace us," he said as if explaining the obvious. He smiled, and a flicker of teeth could be seen behind thin lips. "It's inevitable, I assure you."

_*". . . Watch out, the world's behind you . . . "*_

For politeness sake, Paul managed not to roll his eyes. "Yeah, well, that's a downer." He took another drag off his cigarette, which had almost burned down to his finger.

Sally giggled. "Do you mean like, _robots?"_

_"Artificial people,_ please," Mikage said, then chuckled again. "But yes, 'robots.'" He crossed his legs and rested his hands on his knee. "In less than a century, mankind will be extinct. Our 'children' will have taken over."

Paul didn't even look up as the waitress handed him his scotch. He found he was liking this Jap Doctor less and less. He looked over the man's clothes. Green silk shirt, frilly vest, bolo tie with a turquoise stone: definitely a fruit -- a _yellow_ fruit.

"You sound so sure," Paul said. "How do you know?" He sipped his drink. Good scotch.  
_  
*". . . got a feeling I don't want to know . . ."*_

"Because I'm from the future, Mr. Reese." He winked at him.

Paul nodded and dropped his cigarette on the floor, stubbing it out with his heel. Smart ass Jap. "Mhmm, right, that's uh . . . really interesting . . . How's that working out for you?"

Sally fell back in her chair, snickering to herself.

"I suffer no delusions that you will believe me, Mr. Reese, but . . . " Dr. Mikage reached into his vest pocket and produced a silver cigarette case. Carefully, and with absurd reverence, he opened it and retrieved an object, sealed in a small glass box. ". . . let me reassure you, _this_ will bury you." The object looked like a weird car cigarette lighter. Or a futuristic key. The plastic, wafer-like end had been shattered into a dozen pieces, but each fragment had been painstakingly put back in place -- like a tiny jigsaw puzzle -- and kept immobile by the glass.

The glass box was shaped like a coffin.

"What is it?" Paul asked. He looked over at Sally, but she had stopped paying attention, preoccupying herself with her reefer.

"This was a descendant of humanity," Dr. Mikage said. "A child of mankind . . . though he's gone now." The man looked at the thing in his hand, and Paul saw behind purple lenses a sudden . . . sadness? . . . in the man's eyes.

_"He?"_ Paul thought.  
_  
*". . . all the streets you crossed, not so long ago . . . "*_

Dr. Mikage looked back at Paul with severe intensity and motioned with the artifact. "_This _is the future. _Your _future."

"My future . . . " Paul repeated numbly. His skin prickled, and he felt as if someone had just walked over his grave.

"Soon," the doctor continued, "All of this -- " He motioned lazily around him with his hand, as if to encompass the entire world in a limp gesture. "-- will be nothing but irradiated ruins and bleached skulls." Only his mouth smiled; his eyes remained hard and implacable. "It is my intention to ensure this takes place."

_*". . . it's nothing at all . . . "*_

_What the fuck?_ Crazy Jap nutjob . . . "Um, why?" Paul asked. It seemed a fair enough question.

Dr. Mikage paused before he spoke. "Before a chick can truly be born, it must first destroy its egg. The egg must be _sacrificed_ for the new life to emerge. _We_ are the egg . . . " He held up the glass coffin. ". . . and _this _is our chick. For the new to arise, the old must fall. It's a revolution, Mr. Reese. A cycle of death and rebirth. We _deserve _destruction. It's _natural._ Pure. _Good._" His expression softened, somewhat. "Do you understand?"

_That you're a fucking lunatic? Yes._ "Sure, I guess so . . . " Paul said. "Though I don't think Robbie the Robot is going to be killing us off anytime soon." He smiled at the doctor. "Sorry to disappoint."

_*"Sunday morning . . . Sunday morning . . . Sunday Morning . . ."*_ The song faded away.

The doctor gave Paul a slight grin. "We'll see."

Paul heard Sally laugh. "Mikage, you're so . . . crazy." More giggles.

A new song began: _*"In the yeeeeeeeear twenty-five twenty-five . . . "*_

_A/N: I do not own the songs, "Incense and Peppermints" by The Strawberry Alarm Clocks, "Sunday Morning" by The Velvet Underground, or "In the Year 2525" by Zager and Evans._

_And yes, the character of Souji Mikage is a bit of a crossover, but just barely. And no, my Mikage's hair isn't pink._

_Next chapter will get back to the primary characters. And more Jameron, I promise._


	13. Cassandra

In the Hands of an Angry Machine

Chapter Thirteen: Cassandra

* * *

Back in the future, Riley had always heard stories about the world before Judgment Day. How people flew through the air in great winged machines, with not a Hunter Killer in sight. How the air was clean, the sky blue -- not _red_ -- and how _stars _shone at night, with no dust to blot out the heavens.

Flowers, grass, fresh fruit and vegetables. Meat that didn't come from a rat. Water you could _see through._ It had all seemed like fairy tales, and Riley had thought it cruel that she'd been born _too late _to enjoy this lost paradise.

And then came Jesse, and, for a while at least, life was good. Carrots and apples.

One of the characters in many of these stories -- not a character, really, but rather a place, or maybe an _idea_ -- was _America. _

The United States of America.

In the future, when people would gather around burning barrels to talk of things Before, they would whisper in reverence words like "freedom" and "liberty" when referring to America. Riley hadn't known what these things really meant. General Connor's word was law; how could things be any different? But some of the kinder scavengers -- the older ones, who still _remembered _the Before, would describe how people could _vote _for their Generals. Ordinary people, _choosing _them! Of course, back then, Generals were called _Presidents._

America: they could have ruled the world if they had wanted to, the scavengers had said (and they had even _put men on the moon!_), but in their arrogance they had unleashed Skynet upon mankind. "Pride cometh before a fall," she had heard someone once say.

But none of it had ever seemed real. She had also been told that ghosts haunt the ruins of churches, and that drinking urine from a skull allows you to talk to the dead through your dreams. Not everything she heard was true, she knew. America must have been a myth, like Superman and Eskimos.

Even after she went back with Jesse, it still hadn't seemed like something that _really_ existed. It had all been . . . _abstract. _Like a concept -- thought of and talked about and _believed_ in, but never seen. Sort of like God.

Of course, she had seen civil workers and policemen -- and had even been in a Mexican jail once. But _real _authority never came across as _actual_ or _concrete_.

Until now.

The United States Government really did exist, and they were made up of very scary men in very nice suits.

"You know," said the gray haired man who sat across from her. "Three months ago, 'Sarah Baum,' 'John Baum,' 'Cameron Baum' . . ." He shook his head. ". . . They didn't exist." The man had cold, blue eyes, almost gray like his hair. Everything below his nose smiled . . . but his eyes, they didn't smile at all_._

"I . . . I didn't know that," Riley lied. She looked down at the gray metal table, so he couldn't read her eyes.

The gray table, the gray walls, the gray ceiling: the whole _room _was gray. Even the lights on the walls leaked dreary and dim illumination -- cold and impersonal. A gray blue.

"In fact," the man continued, as if she hadn't spoken at all. "Five weeks ago, _you _didn't exist." His smile grew and showed well cared for teeth. He narrowed his eyes.

Riley looked back down and said nothing.

"Anything you'd like to tell me?" he asked.

"No," she whispered. Were they going to hurt her? This was worse than the Mexican jail. At least they had seemed nice. Or at least polite.

"Does the name, 'John Connor,' mean anything to you?" asked the man.

She looked up at him, and for a split moment it was like he could _read _the truth from her eyes. Like stealing her thoughts. She felt . . . violated somehow and looked back down into her lap.

The gray haired man chuckled. "Ah, it looks like you do. I had _hoped _so . . ." He leaned forward in his chair, resting his arms on the table. "Tell me about Serrano Point," he demanded.

Riley forced herself to not react. Don't look up, he'll steal the lies from your very eyes! But . . . Serrano Point? That was where the Resistance got all its power from. Why would he ask her . . . ?

The man pulled out a vanilla folder from a briefcase by his feet. He opened it up and displayed it on the table for Riley to see.

Photos. Of Cameron. And John's mother. Riley didn't recognize the place, but it looked like a factory or something. Concrete. Lots of pipes and valves and metal supports. A couple of the pictures had Cameron fighting some bald man in a shirt and tie.

"These are surveillance images from inside the Serrano Point Nuclear Power Plant," the man explained. "Taken about a month ago." He leaned forward again and stared at her. Gradually and nearly against her will, she looked up to meet his gaze. "Do you recognize these people?" he asked.

She pointed at Sarah and Cameron. "That's John's mom and his sister." There couldn't be any harm in telling him that, could there?

"That they are," the man said and nodded. "But let me tell you, John's 'sister' sure can fight. It's almost . . ." He paused and gave her an funny look. ". . . _inhuman._"

Riley didn't know what to say to that, so she said nothing. He _couldn't _know, could he?

"Anything you'd like to tell me?" the man asked again, arching an eyebrow.

"No," she said quietly, and shook her head.

"Tell me, have you ever heard of a place called Guantanamo Bay?" He smiled, and this time his eyes smiled too. Riley wished they hadn't.

"No." It didn't sound like a nice place.

"Well," he said, as if he were speaking to a small child. "Let me put it this way. Just like . . . _that." _He snapped his fingers."I could have you sent there and . . . " He mouth twisted into a barely restrained laugh. ". . . they'll strip you _naked. _Lock you in a _cage. Cold_ _water_ dripping on you day and night. Rock and roll heavy metal blaring in your ears . . . you'll never sleep again." He pointed at her bandaged wrists "And we won't let you take the _easy_ way out."

Riley tightened her jaw and closed her eyes. Must not _cry_. But the _fear. _Like at the hospital. And Cameron. No. The tears flowed readily, and Riley felt ashamed. They _were _going hurt her. And she hadn't _done_ anything wrong. "Please . . . " she said, her vision bleary and distorted through her tears. ". . . you . . . can't do this to me."

The man laughed, and Riley heard two other men laugh behind her. She quickly turned to look but could only make out shadows in the dark corners of the room. They were cruel laughs, coming from men who enjoyed their work far too much.

"'Ms. Dawson,'" the gray haired man said. "We're the Department of Homeland Security. We can do whatever the hell we want."

She began to tremble. She felt . . . _vulnerable. _In the future they had said America was all about freedom and voting or whatever. But these were _bad _men. Like machines. Except worse . . . The things they could do to her . . . It had all been done before, of course. In the tunnels. In the dark. The men would crowd around her at night and . . . she started to cry.

One of the men snickered.

"How about you tell use the truth?" the gray haired man asked.

"Okay," she croaked. "Please don't hurt me . . ." She looked up at him and saw elation in his eyes.

"Tell us the truth, and no harm will come to you."

What could she say? Would they believe her? Her options were gone, and she couldn't even _think _of a plausible lie. Didn't someone once say that truth was always the best policy? Well, that didn't work out with her and John. He had sent in his robot to kill her. Stick needles in her arms. Riley whimpered. But no. These bad men would know if she lied. They'd know, and they'd hurt her and laugh.

_Gwatomanobay_? She didn't want to end up _there_, whatever it was.

"Ms. Daw--"

"I'll talk," she said.

The man almost looked disappointed. "All right," he said "Where are you from?"

"I . . . " She cringed. This was going to be embarrassing. And painful. ". . . I'm from the future."

She looked at the man. He didn't blink. His expression didn't change.

"Go on," he said.

* * *

"Okay," the waitress said. "Here's a full breakfast platter for you." She laid down a tray for John consisting of pancakes, scrabbled eggs, bacon, sausages, hash browns, and a glass of orange juice. "And for you, a nice slice of apple pie." She placed the desert on the table in front of Cameron. "You sure you don't want anything to drink, sweetie?"

Cameron cocked her head. The waitress had called her "sweetie." Cameron made herself smile and said, "No thank you." Smiling is polite.

"God, I'm starving," said John before beginning to ingest the eggs.

The time was 4:23am. The stress of the last couple days had disrupted John's circadian rhythm. Eating this late is unhealthy. He should be in bed. Sleep is important for humans.

Cameron doesn't sleep.

But she can eat.

She took a small bite of her desert; apple pie was new to her. The syrup-covered apple fragment on her tongue produced an interesting juxtaposition with the dry powdery crumbs of the pie crust.

Analyzing the ingredients, she detected a high sugar content. The taste was satisfying. Sugar improves flavor.

"Can you taste food?" John asked through a mouth full of hash browns.

Cameron swallowed. "Yes," she said. "I can taste food." She began to divide the pie with her fork into bite sized portions.

"But can you taste," John paused to chew. "Like me?"

She decided to try something new. "I don't know. I've never tasted you before."

"No, I mean . . . " He stopped for half a second, and his face turned a slight shade of red. He smirked. "Did you just make a_ joke?_"

Cameron smiled. "I don't know. Was it funny?"

He blew out a breath that could have been a laugh and held up a hand, tilting it back and forth. She recognized the gesture as meaning, "sort of." "Not too bad," John said. "For a first." He gave her a lopsided grin.

Her attempt at humor had proved partially successful. That was . . . good. She allowed her smile to increase in width.

"But seriously," John said. "Does food taste the same for you as it does for me?" He drank some of his orange juice.

Cameron thought about that. How could she know? "It's hard to say," she decided, then looked at her pie. "Here." She scooped up a piece with her fork and held it out to him. "Try this."

John hesitated for a moment, then leaned forward and ate the pie off the fork. He arced his eyebrows and slowly nodded his head. "Good pie," he said.

"So it tastes good?" she asked.

"I think so."

She smiled and nodded in approval . "I think so too."

"Well," He chuckled. "It still doesn't answer my question, but . . . " His shoulders shrugged. "I guess there's no way to know for sure. I mean, whether we taste the same things or not."

"No, there isn't," she agreed. She motioned with her hand at his orange juice and John nodded. She picked up the glass. "You'd have to be a machine," she continued. "And I'd have to be a human." She sipped his drink. Too acerbic. It had come from concentrate. Freshly squeezed orange juice is superior.

"Yeah, but you're more than just a machine," John said.

_Just a machine. _The word "machine" carried negative connotations for John. Cameron considered that irrational. "You're not more than just a human. We are what we are." She took another bite of her pie. The aftertaste of the orange juice contaminated the flavor.

"Yeah, I guess you're right." He glanced out the window at the hotel next door. Cameron saw worry in his eyes.

"You're mother is going to be all right," Cameron said. "Her fever is mild, and Kyle will return soon with antibiotics."

John chewed on a piece of bacon. "He's been gone for a while."

Kyle had been gone for seven hours, thirty-eight minutes, and forty-seven seconds. "He's collecting money," she explained.

John laughed. "'Collecting.' Nice euphemism, there."

Cameron smiled again. Collecting is a nice euphemism for theft. An unintentional joke?

They ate in silence for a forty-seven seconds. John's posture slouched; he needed more rest. She watched as he pushed his eggs around with his fork. "So . . . " he said finally. "Find anything interesting in the flash drive?"

Should she tell him about her chip? Even knowing about the patch, John could still become agitated. Or even become afraid of her. John agitated easily.

And then there was the long-term problem. From the drive she had learned that within approximately fifteen years her cognitive functions would begin to erode. Skynet hadn't designed her neural net to last forever; her future self eventually had to transfer her consciousness to a new chip. John would react negatively to that news.

"Cam, what's wrong?"

Cameron looked up. She shouldn't have hesitated. That had caused him concern. She decided to tell him about the patch. He should know.

To offer reassurance, she reached out a hand and touched his own. "John," she said, and noted that his body temperature dropped. "The damage to my chip, it's going to get worse."

* * *

John scooted his eggs around with his fork, making a small pile in the middle of his plate. He didn't feel hungry anymore, and for a passing moment he felt that growing panic climbing up in his insides. But he forced it down and away. No anxiety attacks today, thank you very much.

But despite _knowing _what needed to be done to stop Skynet -- and that flash drive was a life-saver -- he suddenly realized how uncertain his future really was. They were all wanted by the law -- _again, _and John wasn't sure how they were going to get out of this one.

New identities? Enrique had been their only real contact for that, and someone had killed him and his nephew.

Were the four of them just going to roam from hotel room to hotel room for the rest of their lives, living off stolen cars and robbed convenience stores? How much money was Kyle going to "collect?" Enough to start a new life? If only the cops hadn't gone through the house . . . all those diamonds . . .

And did Kyle really know what he was doing? _And do I trust him? _

Cam seemed to; maybe she knew something he didn't.

"So . . . find anything interesting in the flash drive?" he asked.

Cameron paused and looked down at her half-eaten pie. She was hiding something.

"Cam, what's wrong?" he asked, feeling a vague dread.

Cameron looked at him and reached across the table to touch his hand. The gesture came across awkward and stilted, but John knew it was her way of trying to keep him calm, which of course only made him worry all the more.

"John, the damage to my chip, it's going to get worse."

For a second her words seemed meaningless -- just noises, really, but then they sank in and took form, and a sudden chill seeped through his skin. It wasn't _fair. _Mere hours after he tells her he loves her . . . and now she's doomed to go craz-- Wait a minute. Future Cam seemed okay enough . . .

"It's okay John." She gave his hand a squeeze and pulled out something from under the table. It was a small clear plastic case with a computer chip inside -- about the size of a fingernail.

"What's that?" John asked.

"Kyle brought it back with him," she said. "He told me it'll fix the glitches."

"Will it?" John asked.

Cameron cocked her head. "I don't know."

"You don't know . . . " John said. He didn't like this one bit; too much was at stake, and as for Kyle . . . "What did your future self do? She didn't have that." He pointed at the chip.

"Xander Akagi had to work on me," she said.

"Alex Akagi's son?"

She nodded. "According to the drive, it took him over a month to fix me, and that may have been by accident. My future self later had to repair damage he inadvertently caused." She paused, and her mouth twitched. "But there's someo--"

"What's going to happen?" John asked. _Please, not another birthday party . . ._

Her eyes showed hesitation, but knew he had to know. He rubbed her knuckles with his thumb, and she gave his fingers a light squeeze.

"The Allison glitch will return," Cameron said. "Blackouts. Servo malfunctions resulting in involuntary movements . . . "

Without thinking, John's eyes darted to her hand. She noticed and pulled it away and looked down into her lap.

"No, no," John said, suddenly feeling like a dick. He reached out for her retreating hand and clasped it between both of his palms. "It's okay, it's okay," he said. "Now, just tell me how much time we have?"

Cameron's mouth opened, then closed, then, "A couple of months."

"All right," John said, forcing himself to smile. "That's plenty of time."

"John, if it doesn't work . . . "

"It will," John said, trying to sound confident. "Or we'll think of something else."

Cameron frowned slightly and looked at the hand John held. "We'll need the same computer hardware you used when you read Vick's chip," she said.

That had all burned up in the fire, but John decided not to bring that up. Not now. "Okay," he said. He'd have to call Kendo again.

"I want you to do it," she said and smiled.

_"And not Kyle," _sang the unspoken second half to that sentence. John felt a little lump crawl in the back on his throat.

_This_ was his chance. His _real _chance. He had fucked up before, and the falling dominoes of that mistake had reverberated down through time for twenty years . . . circling back around and resulting in his resurrection. The Foundation? New Zealand? Kyle? It was like an of elaborate Rube-Goldberg machine, constructed of human lives and set in motion by Cameron's undying love.

But did he deserve it?

Future Cam had believed he died hating her, and in death that hate must have seemed immortal, eternal -- frozen in time, like a mosquito sealed in amber.

_Kyle said Cam cried_ . . .

John tried to imagine how he would feel if his mother told him she hated him, and then killed herself. His eyes began to water, just slightly.

If his suicide was a boulder crushing against future Cam's soul, then those final, spiteful words would be that stone wrapped in thorns.

Kyle was right -- not many people get a second chance, and John was not about to waste his. He could never make it up to future Cam, but he would do everything in his power to set things right with _his _Cam.

"Will you? Remove my chip?" she asked, her smile fading, as if she was afraid he'd tell her "No."

"I will. I'll be there for you," John said, rubbing her hand with both of his own. "I promise." he added.

Her smile returned.

He thought of the "Allison" incident (and who was "Allison" anyway? Why had he never asked?) and tried to picture it happening after his death. She'd be all alone, wandering the streets lost and scared, thinking she's someone she's not . . .

Future Cam must have been desperate to have gone to Xander for help. Xander may be a genius, but working on her chip? It'd be like getting Thomas Edison to repair a space shuttle.

Kyle's chip thing better work, but even if it didn't, John knew he'd stand by her side. He'd _prove_ himself to her. He'd _earn _his second chance.

And her love.

Cameron suddenly turned to look out the window, and John got a good look at the flesh colored bandage that covered her missing ear. _"We should have killed Derek," _he thought.

"Kyle's back," she said.

* * *

Kyle pulled the truck into the hotel parking lot and chose a space by the side.

Resting his head back in the drivers seat, he sighed. A busy night. It's amazing how bad the security set-up was in some of these retail places. Radio World and Home Depot might have surveillance cameras, motion detectors, and metal bars pulled down over their doors, but there was nothing to prevent an enterprising freelance socialist from coming in through the roof. All he had needed was a sledgehammer to break through the ceiling, a rope a climb down, and a blowtorch to cut the safe.

Over thirty-five grand, a pound of thermite, a bag of pharmaceuticals, some raw chemicals, and a nice set of power tools: not a bad haul. Kyle had to admit it had actually been kind of fun, relaxing even. Sort of like his missions for the Foundation, except without all the killing. This could be a nice hobby for him . . .

From the corner of his eye he caught John and Cameron sitting at a booth together at the waffle house. They were holding hands.

Kyle's good humor dissipated like steam, and he clenched his jaw. Since he had traveled back, it seemed now that his entire life had been merely a tiny part of a much bigger work, one that began twenty years from now in a future he would never know. His own role had been minor and had only come into play during the tale-end of that grand epic called Cameron's life.

Kyle watched as Cameron looked in his direction. Kyle nodded his head at her and gave her a half-wave. She turned to say something to John.

Traveling to 2007 had been like flipping back the pages of a story and peeking at the parts he had skipped. His Cameron never told him much about her life before the Foundation. He had known about General Connor, of course, and young John and his spiteful suicide . . . but most of the real details had never materialized, and since talking about it upset her, Kyle never asked.

In New Zealand, only Xander, Alex, and Professor Donnelly had known Cameron from before, and they hadn't known her long or well. None of them had ever met John. With only Cameron's cryptic reverence to go on, John had seemed to young Kyle to be nearly a long lost legend. Or a dead god.

He stepped out of the truck and leaned back against the drivers side door. The jagged teeth of the shattered window pressed through his trench coat, tickling his spine. Inside the restaurant, he could see John talk to Cameron as she paid the waitress.

To finally _meet_ John was to walk in the mythology of her early life. No, not just walk; _interfere. _He had disrupted what _should _have been. Like picking a chapter in a history book and tearing out all the pages that followed, he had _destroyed _what had come after.

True, he had been following Cameron's orders, but he still could have disobeyed.

He watched as Cameron and John left the waffle house and walked towards him. Kyle smiled, but only for Cameron's sake.

If he could go back a couple days, would he let John fall? It wasn't too late, of course; he could still kill him. Make it look like a suicide. Then Cameron would be all his . . .

Deep inside, a pang of guilt throbbed, like an unseen barb pushed against nowhere.

He knew that if anything were to happen to John, Cameron would cry. Kyle had only seen that once in his life; he must have been thirteen or fourteen at the time. The two of them had been cuddled in bed together, and in the glow of Auckland's city lights, she told him of John's final hate. He remembered being almost frightened by her tears, understated though they were, just wet eyes, really, with tiny rivulets silently rolling down her cheeks. For Cameron, though, that might as well had been unabashed wailing. It had been at that moment that he realized how deep John's death had hurt her. John _had _burned her, and that wound would never heal.

Kyle couldn't do that to her; he'd sooner murder the world than see her hurt. He looked down at the pavement and toed a soggy cigarette stub with his sneakers.

"So, how'd it go?" John asked, walking up with Cameron by his side.

Kyle sighed and half turned around, reaching in through the broken window. He pulled out a backpack, unzipped it, and withdrew a bottle of Bactrim.

"Let's go have a look at your mother," he said.

* * *

John lays on the operating table, unconscious. Cameron stands over him wearing a nurse's uniform. In her hand rests a scalpel.

Sarah watches from across the room, standing paralyzed and mute.

Cameron smiles down at John, and begins to make an incision along the right side of his head. The short razor blade cuts in a semi-circle, and the John's scalp peels back like a loose flap, revealing bloody white bone beneath.

White bone. With a round hole. Sealed with a cork.

John's brain port.

Cameron smiles at her handiwork and puts down the scalpel on a nearby tray. From it, she picks up a corkscrew.

Sarah tries to scream, but nothing comes out. Her body feels as if it's enveloped in cold glass.

Cameron begins to twist the corkscrew over John's port. Around and around. The spiraling spike digs deeper and deeper into the cork.

After pausing for dramatic effect, Cameron yanks it out with a "pop."

A burbling torrent of blood gushes from the open port, like red wine from a cask. Cameron puts down the corkscrew and picks up a champagne glass off the medical tray. She holds it under John's head, filling the glass with his life blood.

Sarah can't move. She shrieks silent screams of fury.

Cameron lifts the glass to her lips and smells John's blood. She smiles at Sarah and takes a sip.

The blood has stopped flowing from John's port. His head is empty. His soul is gone.

With cosmic hate, Sarah wails against her invisible bonds.

Something begins to crawl from John's empty hole. A turtle. A tiny turtle. A tiny mechanical turtle. It's little servos make faint "whirring" sounds as it leaves it's cranial home and crawls onto the table.

Another robotic turtle appears from John's head, poking out it's little turtle neck.

Then, another.

Three tiny mechanical turtles.

They all crawl off the table and hit the floor, one after another, and make their way towards Sarah. With each baby step, they grow bigger and bigger, the tiny metal joints and gears and rivets expand and fold in on themselves. Becoming more massive with each flip or pivot.

They each grow to the size of a large dog.

And the faces . . .

The faces . . . with green skin and reptile eyes, the face of Kyle looks at her from each of the turtles head. The three Kyles smirk, as if her terror were a private joke.

They open wide their green metal jaws to reveal perfectly capped teeth.

They move closer.

And closer, and are about to bite into her knees when . . .

Sarah looks at Cameron, who is now standing in a bra and panties. Still holding the wine glass filled with John's blood, Cameron winks at Sarah, and opens her mouth to say, "_. . . in Thousand Oaks early this morning. Authorities say the explosion was caused by . . ._ "

Sarah woke up.

_". . . was caused by an underground reservoir of natural gas . . . "_ explained the television.

The sheets slid in frustration against her warm body, and she could feel the dampness where her night sweat had taken hold. She pushed away the bed's comforter and forced herself to sit up.

A dream.

All a dream.

_". . . all thirty-six employees of the Desert Canyon Heat and Air company were killed in the blast . . . "_

Her bed of sweat turned cold. The warehouse -- it had only been a couple days; funny how it seemed so long ago now. She hadn't really even thought of it since the hospital. All the recent drama had drowned it out from her mind; you can only worry about so much at a time.

_"Two days ago, I _killed _a man," _she thought and wondered why she didn't feel it.

On the television a helicopter camera man panned around to show the devastation. Light tendrils of smoke drifted out of a collapsed landscape. Not just the warehouse, the whole _area, _like one giant sinkhole, or a great foot-print made by an unimaginable god.

What could have done that? A big bomb?

And Skynet? Destroying evidence?

The drone.

She _hadn't_ hallucinated that.

The drone was _real._ Which meant . . .

Like an adult who just found proof of Santa Claus' existence, Sarah immediately and unequivocally _knew, _at that moment, that she wasn't crazy and never had been. Her heart beat loudly with renewed strength, for in this revelation laid _vindication_. She felt herself smile.

The drone was real; the destruction of the warehouse was _proof _of that. No doubt could remain. Not anymore.

And if the drone was real, so were the three dots.

The three dots . . .

Her dreams were real. _Really_ real. She always knew that, deep down. It was _faith._ And they had been too vivid. Too intense. Normal dreams -- _mortal _dreams -- were never like that. She would not dare explain them -- for who could account for the wonder of miracles? -- but by the work of some higher power, be it God, or angels, or some vague cosmic force for Good, she knew her dreams were _prophetic._

She was Cassandra, the woman who could see the future . . . but no one would ever believe her.

They would _now_ _though_. No crazy Sarah. Not anymore. That warehouse didn't blow _itself _up . . .

But if her dreams were real . . . what about the one she had just awoken from? Could that be a warning? Sarah knew in her bones it was.

Cameron. Drinking John's blood . . .

She -- _it --_ had always hid behind dull stares and monotone words -- and those _blank, dead eyes!_ -- but the dreams had shown Sarah the _truth._

Cameron was stealing John's_ soul._

And the three turtles -- each with Kyle's grinning face . . . abominations. All abominations.

Cameron's little pets.

She would _turn _John. Make him one of them.

No. Sarah would never allow that to happen. _Never!_

_"You can't fool me, you tin bitch!" _Sarah thought as she ground her teeth until her jaw ached. _"_I _know what you are!"_

But what could she do about it? Perhaps the dreams would give an answer, though Sarah could already feel the solution flowing through her chest. Derek and Jesse had failed -- but _she _wouldn't.

The Tin Miss would have to go.

For John's own good.

For _the world's_ own good.

She struggled to pull herself out of bed, but her rush of strength proved illusionary, and the weakness of the flesh returned once more. She fell back into the sheets with a creak of springs. Her head swam; the fever seemed a spinning heat in her brain.

Brain? . . . Brain . . . Brain cancer? _Oh no, not now . . . _Not while _it _was still alive.

A terrible premonition suddenly emerged, like a ship from a fog: What if _Cameron_ had given her cancer?

_But then, why would she tell me about it?_ So you won't suspect her, of course.

And to _gloat!_

It must be the eyes. Cancer rays. Shooting radiation into her. Wide brown pools of death.

_"She wants to replace me!" _she thought._ "But of course she does,_" said a hidden voice in the back of her head. _"The Tin Bitch wants John _all to herself."

Sarah rolled her head back and forth. No!

_"To fuck him." _the voice continued, calmly and evenly.

_"Please . . ."_ she begged the voice.

_"Just like she fucked _Kyle," it said

"No!" Sarah shouted aloud as her hands clawed at the damp sheets and squeezed them till her knuckles burned. She'd _fight _the cancer. Fight the cancer. And save her son. Save him from the hideous simulation of what John would think is _love. _Machines could _never _love.

And even if they _could, _they _shouldn't._

Footsteps. Outside the room.

Sarah scrambled up and leaned back against the headboard. The doorknob clicked and rotated.

Where was the gun? Her eyes, seemingly on their own accord, darted about the room wildly. The walls shifted and tilted, and Sarah grabbed hold of her head to halt the vertigo. She pulled away her hands, and strands of hair came out between the fingers of her clenched fists.

_No!_

The door opened, and John and Cameron walked in, Kyle stepping in behind them.

Bide your time. Don't let them know you're on to them. Act casual. Behave.

Sarah repressed her inner scowl and forced herself to smile. "How'd it go?"

* * *

The contrast between the cool night air and the warm dankness of the hotel room was palpable, like stepping into a darkened sauna. John sniffed at the musk of fevered sweat.

"How'd it go?" his mother asked from the bed, an incongruent smile on her lips. John could barely see her in the dark; only the electric glow of the television produced any amount of light. An episode of "Who's the Boss?" played, the sound turned low.

Cameron flicked on the lights, and his mom squinted and turned away.

"I picked up some antibiotics," Kyle said. He walked up to her and felt her head. "Your burning up," he said.

"Is she going to be alright?" John asked. She looked like hell, her skin pale and clammy and her hair a damp frenzy. He stepped over next to Kyle and saw that her pupils were as small as pin pricks. Light blue marbles turned to look at him, and she furrowed her brow. For some reason John felt the need to take a step back.

"She'll be fine. It's not _that _high." Kyle said. From his backpack he pulled out a bottle of water. "Here." He handed her the bottle. And a pill.

She stared at the pill as if it were rat poison. Kyle rolled his eyes.

_"Asshole," _John thought. "How about her leg?" he asked. A vague nervousness swelled in his stomach.

"Let's take a look," Kyle said, seemingly unconcerned, and pulled out a pair of scissors from the first aid kit on the nightstand. He slowly cut away the bandages and began to peel them back. John held his breath and suddenly felt nauseous.

Once in Guatemala, back when he was about six years old, a guerrilla fighter had gotten gangrene in his foot. The punji stick he had stepped on must have been coated with feces, for the infection had spread quick. Everything from the toes to the ankle had been an angry pattern of black and red splotches, and clear, runny puss oozed from cracks in the dead flesh. It had smelled like almonds. His mother had forced him to watch as the doctor sawed off the man's leg. She said it would toughen him up.

_Please, not gangrene. _But John knew the fear to be irrational -- it had only been a few hours.

Cameron walked up behind John and took his hand in hers, positioning herself so neither Kyle nor his mother could see. Her thin fingers felt warm against his palm.

Kyle pulled back the bandages: the wound was only a vague red. Little more than a rash. John restrained from sighing in relief; that would seem too dramatic.

"It's fine," Kyle said, almost sounding surprised. "I think your fever's unrelated." He looked at the pill in his mom's hand. "You should still take that," he said.

His mother looked up and laid her hand back against the headboard. "The warehouse," she said. "Skynet destroyed it."

"Destroyed what?" John asked.

She turned her eyes to look at him. "I saw a drone, John," she said. "They must have been making them at the warehouse." She paused. "The three dots . . . "

"The warehouse where you were shot?" John asked. Strange how he never even thought to ask about that until now. Everything had been too distracting lately, what with his dad coming back from the dead and his uncle trying to kill his girlfriend . . . Girlfriend? Yes, that's right, John decided, and gave Cameron's fingers a squeeze. He realized the corners of his mouth had curled up into a grin.

His mother scowled. "You think this is funny?" she snapped.

"No . . ." John said. "But . . . " He let go of Cameron's hand.

His mother snatched up the remote off the bed and started flipping through the channels. John glanced at Kyle, who watched his mother with condescending amusement.

"Here," his mom said at last.

John looked at the TV, and his jaw dropped. "What did_ that_?" he asked. The news footage showed a blackened pit, like a lopsided crater, a hundred yards or so across. It looked like a messy meteor impact.

"They said it's a 'natural gas explosion,'" his mother said. "Friday, I was _there._" She pointed at the screen. "Now it's Sunday. You think _that's_ a coincidence?"

Kyle pursed his lips and frowned.

"No," John said. Then, to Cameron, "Did the flash drive mention anything about this?"

She cocked her head. "No. It must not be relevant."

His mom sneered, "'Not be _relevant?_'" She shook her head and smiled in anger. "You _knew_ about it _all along, _didn't you?" she said, nearly in a whisper.

John sighed inwardly. "Look, we'll investigate it later, but right now we have do get our new identities figured out."

His mother glared at him, her eyes narrowed to slits. "The three dots, John," she said. "They're _real. _Remember that."

John took another step back from his mother. What was _wrong _with her? There _was _something wrong with her, right? But either the three dots really meant something, or she had just happened to stumble upon a warehouse that turned into a smoking crater two days later. And she _did _get shot. But _Drones? Dots?_ John almost _wished _his mom was crazy. He wasn't sure if he wanted to deal with magical dreams or any of that crazy shit.

He looked at her, and one corner of her mouth drooped into a wry frown. He swallowed and suddenly _felt_ the awkward silence that had descended upon the room. _Well, maybe she _is_ crazy. _No, that wasn't right. She was _sick. _She'd get better, once she got some rest.

"Right," Kyle said, with only a trace of sarcasm. "Now, about our new identities . . . "

"Do we know any other contacts for that?" John asked his mom. "Other than Enrique, I mean."

His mother gave Cameron a dirty look, but then said, "Maybe."

Kyle held up his hands, palms out. "We don't need any 'contacts,'" he said. "All he need it right here." He turned to Cameron and pointed at the right side of her head.

"I don't understand . . . ?" John said.

"Originally," Cameron said. "I convinced Xander Akagi to connect my chip to the internet. I hacked into the national database and created a false identity." She paused. "I can also create bank accounts for financial resources."

"You can do that?" John asked.

Cameron smiled and tapped a finger against her temple. John thought of Uncle Bob. "I can now," she said. "The flash drive has instructions. Though the first time I had to learn by trial and error."

"We're not hooking her into the internet," his mother said and made a sour face.

"But --" John started.

"It's too dangerous!"

Kyle ignored her and looked at Cameron. "To repair your chip we'll need some specialized equipment."

"I know someone. He had what I needed last time," John said, trying to ignore his mother's poisonous stare.

"Where does he live?" Kyle asked. "If he has it, I can find it."

John shook his head. "No. No 'collecting.' We're not ripping him off. Kendo's a good guy." He didn't know that for certain, of course. He'd only met the guy once. but still . . .

"It'd save us money," said Kyle.

"No," John said. "We pay him." Kyle frowned at that. "And what difference does it make?" John added and pointed back at Cameron with his thumb. "If she can _make _money, then who cares?"

Kyle shrugged and sighed. "You got a point there."

"We're not hooking her into the internet!" his mother repeated, her voice sounding both tired and shrill.

"Mom, you need some rest."

"We can't trust her!" his mother spat, then jabbed a finger in Cameron's face. "I _know _what you're up to! I _know!_" For a second his mother's face resembled a gargoyle.

Cameron cocked her head, her frown almost imperceivable.

"Mom . . . " John started, but instead he just blew out a breath. His shoulders suddenly felt very heavy. Really, what was the point? He looked over at Kyle, who's expression came across as something not quiet annoyance. "I need to call Kendo," John said. "Where's the nearest pay phone?"

* * *

" . . . no problem, John," Kendo said into the phone. "Just come by around 6pm, and bring the money."

"Thanks, I really appreciate this," said John's voice.

"No problem," Kendo said again, and hung up.

Damn.

When the Feds came by yesterday, Kendo never really expected to actually hear from John again. Really, if the guy's pissed off Homeland Security, why the hell was he worrying about video game gear? And buying the _exact same stuff_ he bought a month ago? What the hell did John do with it all, burn it?

For a full minute, Kendo considered not telling them. He hated narcs, and the whole idea of just getting _involved _left a dirty felling in his stomach. Like indigestion, but _cold._ Behind him, he heard gunfire and explosions as his cousins played _Halo 3. _No, he couldn't risk it. They probably had his phones tapped anyway.

And Kendo didn't want to end up in Guantanamo.

Bastards.

He sighed and noticed his hand trembling, just slightly. _Why did John have to call _me?

God damn it.

Kendo dialed Agent Baldwin's number.

* * *

Jesse sat on a couch in a dark basement of a warehouse and poured herself another shot of vodka."Shot" might be the inoperative word however; the glass was really way too big to be considered a shot glass. But she downed it, and gurned. She hated warm vodka -- warm rum she could stomach, but vodka . . . it was _meant_ to be cold. Like Russia.

She poured herself another sho -- _glass -- _about three fingers worth_. _Already her cheeks had gone numb. She slapped them with her hand, and the tingle felt muted, as if it was happening to someone else. She downed the glass again and placed it on the armrest of the recliner. It slid off and shattered on the concrete floor.

Oh, well.

The waiting game. She hated it. Nothing to do. Just wait.

But the Connors couldn't hide forever. The Feds would do her work_ for_ her. John, or his idiot mother, or even that _machine _would make a mistake sooner or later . . . and Uncle Sam would come down on them like a bag of bricks.

Just wait. If the Feds find something, she'd_ know._

Wait. Wait. Wait.

Jesse lifted the bottle to her lips and upended it into her mouth, but the vodka's sting gagged her, and she pulled it away, causing it to slosh on her tank top. Bleh. No more vodka for her. She put the bottle on the other armrest. Slip. Crash. Oops.

Damn.

_Poor Derek . . ._

A noise, like a little song, made of beeping sounds . . . her phone! Jesse patted her pockets. Where the hell was it? She leaned forward. _There_ it was. By her feet! Without even looking at the number, she snatched it up and answered.

"Yeah," she asked, trying not to sound drunk.

The voice spoke without greetings or introductions, for none were needed. "We believe John Connor is going to appear at 'Kendo's Tech Shack' at 6pm today." Jesse heard a click; the call had ended.

Good 'Ol Agent Carlson. It was good to have connections.

Jesse dropped the phone in her lap and ran her fingers over her face. She was smiling.


	14. The Golden Rule

In the Hands of an Angry Machine

Chapter Fourteen: The Golden Rule

_A/N: I'd like to thank Metroid 13 for beta-reading part of this chapter. His advice has proven invaluable.

* * *

_

Derek surfaced from the black with a head full of fog. He tried to force open his eyes, but dried mucus kept the lids to a squint. Lights. Blurs. And _cotton_ in his mouth? He heard a TV playing, the volume turned low. Sounds of dampened laughter carried weakly in the air.

He rolled his head. That felt nice -- like fluffy clouds in the brain.

The lights and blurs gradually sharpened into rigid form, and he saw he was laying in a bed. In a room. A hospital room. Dark. Nighttime.

By only the glow of the television set and the bleeding glare of outside streetlights, he saw -- but not _felt -- _his left foot hanging wrapped in bandages, propped in a sling. His right forearm stood erect, immobilized in a plaster cast, with an almost undetectable pins-and-needles tingling inside. He felt the pressure of bandages against his scalp, and he flexed his chest. A vague throb crawled from his ribs, and the wrappings of his torso contracted like a boa constrictor. Broken ribs?

Something had happened. Something was wrong.

Then it all came rushing back, like the unwanted recollection of a forgotten nightmare.

Jesse. Cameron. Kyle? And pain.

In the terrible light of these rising memories, the hippy-drippy fog evaporated into desolate clarity.

Oh.

Fuck.

_What have I done?_

No. _He _hadn't done anything. It was the _metal's _fault.

And . . . his brother's?

Derek blew out a breath and wished his life made more sense. Couldn't someone have _explained_ all this to him? Obviously _that_ Kyle wasn't _his _Kyle, but what kind of fucked up future did _that_ Kyle come from where he would _beat the shit _out of his _own brother_ over a _fucking_ _machine_? _Defending _it? And _Siberia? _What the fuck had he been talking about? A metal loving Kyle? What happened?

He probably didn't want to know, anyway. And it didn't matter. Derek was screwed. _Metal broke my wrist; brother broke my foot -- _he _remembered_ that. "Kyle" had grabbed it, and _"snap." _All methodical. Like a machine. A soulless monster with his brother's face and shiny capped teeth.

Derek tried to move, wiggle his toes, twiddle his fingers. The morphine -- that's what it was, he could tell -- made a dull anger of the pain.

Why wasn't he dead? Didn't Kyle and _it _say they were going to kill him? Sarah, or maybe even John, must have intervened. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of John saving him, though. It seemed so half-assed. _Saving _him wouldn't involve dumping him a hospital and leaving him to his fate -- and did the authorities know who he was? He'd find out, soon enough . . .

_You should have either killed me or kept me, John._ To do _this _showed a lack of resolve. More than that, it was a _betrayal. _Turning on his own uncle . . . over _metal_.

No, not just metal. There was "_Kyle_."

_Kyle_ may be John's father, but not _that _Kyle, whoever the hell he was. But still, John's "dad?" A metal lover? Jesus Christ. _That'd_ fuck with his nephew's head all right. Talk about a bad influences._ "I should have been around more," _Derek thought and frowned. John _needed_ a father figure -- a _real _one. Maybe if he hadn't been eating hot dogs and fucking Jesse all the time, he could have prevented all this. Make John grow up right_. _

But had Jesse _really _been telling the truth? About John and Cameron?

Or was Cameron right?

For a moment, Derek's tingling wrist flared into pain.

No. If Jesse wanted John dead, she could have done that a hundred times by now. She'd certainly been spying on him long enough. Just a scoped rifle in the bushes and -- _bang!_ -- there goes John.

The metal _must_ be the one lying. Probably just to get him to turn against Jesse. Manipulators. Liars. That's all they were_._ That, and killers.

Really, what more proof did he need?

Metal can't be trusted.

And as for John, falling for her -- hook, line, and sinker . . . He thought back to when John held a gun on him and Sarah -- only a _month _ago -- to protect _it_. Yeah, Jesse had to be telling the truth. Derek could _see _it developing between them, easily. Twenty years down the line? He shuddered, and his head throbbed, but he couldn't _deny_ it.

It's not like that sort of thing never happened before.

But to the future _Leader of the Fucking Resistance_? General Connor the Metal Lover? Fuck. Derek wondered how John kept it a secret for so long_._

Well, he _didn't, _obviously. Not secret enough, anyway. _Jesse _knew, which means other people probably did too.

And how would the Resistance react? The was easy: badly. _Very _badly. Derek clenched his jaw. No wonder Jesse was so determined to kill it. It could cost them the war.

No one liked a metal lover.

There had been that Doctor-Science-Guy Derek once knew, back at Crystal Peak. What was his name? Something Japanese, though the guy had had a German accent. Well, _he_ got outed as a tin-fucker, and it ruined his career. Went overnight from amicable eccentric to hated pariah. His machine got scrapped. He got thrown out. Probably had to eat rats.

Derek idly watched the TV mounted in the corner of the room. News footage panned over a smoldering valley. Grass fire? Plane crash? Meteor? Who cares? Didn't involve him in the slightest.

But that guy was just some little pervert scientist -- just a tiny fish in the ocean of the Resistance. What would happen if the same was found out about _General Connor?_

John would be finished.

Their leader in bed with a _thing? _Even ignoring the disgust factor, everyone would think his judgment had been compromised. Either by imprisonment or assassination, he'd be _out._

And who'd lead then? Technically, General Perry was second in command, but what about Falkland? Or Edwards? Or Simmons? Or Stirling? . . . _They_ wouldn't take Perry's promotion lying down. And that'd be just what they need: a civil war -- maybe even a multi-sided one. Skynet would _laugh, _if it could.

Inside him, Derek could feel the morphine slowly die. Ice formed in his belly.

This was way _bigger _than any of that "it's just a machine" or "it doesn't have a soul" shit. Even if Cameron _did _have a soul_ -- _and who knows? Maybe she did have some electronic facsimile of personhood inside that plastic chip of hers. Probably not -- _certainly _not -- but even if she_ did_, it didn't _matter._

When it came right down to it, it was just plain _selfish. _Whether John liked it or not, _he_ was the _linchpin _of the Resistance. If he fucked with metal, he fucked with the _entire_ _human race. _

Not that there was much Derek could do about it now; he blew his chance in the supply shed. Should have just gone for the thermite.

He sighed and listened as his heart beat dully in his chest. The morphine had faded down to an indistinct cottony feel -- with a nausea afterglow. Dim pains began to multiply across his body. His shifted his back a little, but his ribs told him to stop.

The door to the room opened. Two police officers entered. One of them flicked on the lights.

Derek squinted in the glare and groaned. God damn it.

They said something; he didn't bother listening. He already knew where this was going. Blah, blah, blah . . . under arrest . . . blah, blah, blah . . . murder . . . blah, blah, blah . . . Andy Goode . . . blah, blah, blah . . .

His foot itched.

* * *

Sarah's eyes fluttered open. _"No dreams," _she thought. Or at least none that she could remember. But was that _good?_ Her head felt flush, but stable. No dizziness, anyway; that was something. She sniffed and smelled the scent of body odor, musky, with an odd tang. Probably her own. And the bed. When was the last time she bathed?

And what was that sound? Like music and laughter and people talking, but all crowded and distorted, like coming from a tin can.

She pushed herself up with her arms and propped her elbows behind her. The muscles in her shoulders felt tired, but in a warm, taut way, like after a good workout.

The light streaming through the curtains betrayed a late afternoon, bordering on evening. How long had she slept? And where was every--?

She noticed the back of a head poking up from the foot of the bed, and for a moment though it was John's. Same dark brown hair, same ears . . . but then the head turned and -- no, not _quiet. _

"Morning," Kyle said, glancing back at her from the corner of his eye, then turning back away. The sounds abruptly stopped.

"What time is it?" Sarah asked.

"About six in the evening," he said, and she could tell he was smiling. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Better," she said, and was surprised by her own laugh. "But not great." She looked around quickly. "Where's John?" Her voice remained calm, though the shadow of habitual anxiety gave her a slight chill.

"He went with Cameron to pick up the equipment."

Sarah's brain seemed to swell at that, and her head suddenly hurt with a dull, spinning pain. Equipment. Cameron -- _computers. _And the _internet . . . _She frowned and narrowed her eyes. Who knew what chaos Cameron could unleash? She could contact 888s. Tell them where to find John_._ Use them to _stage_ _an attack_ . . . then Cameron would "save" him.

What better way to gain his trust?

A thought crept on Sarah, like a snake in the grass: could Cameron have been doing that from the _very beginning?_ With Cromartie. Vick. Carter. . . _All _working for _her_? Ice ran down her spine.

_Cameron ordered Cromartie to kidnap me!_

Kyle turned around and looked at her. "John said something about a 'last time,'" He frowned. "I know about the explosion, but when did John . . . "

Sarah scooted herself over to the end of the bed (Her leg felt better now, only an easily ignored throb) and looked down at Kyle. He sat on the carpet, balancing the laptop between his knees. The monitor had been pulled down.

"John used her chip to hack into a traffic control system," she said. "It was later going to become part of Skynet." But that wasn't true, was it? No. Cameron and Vick must have planned it all from the start. They probably had _meetings_ . . .

Sarah's eye twitched.

"So John . . . " Kyle trailed off and looked down at the floor and cocked his head. "She let him remove her chip?" He didn't seem to like that. Not one bit.

Sarah smirked. "Yes."

"He didn't touch it with his _hands, _did he?" When Sarah didn't answer, he sighed. "You know," he said. "It's kept in a vacuum chamber for a _reason. _Things aren't supposed to touch it. Not even _air._"

_"How about a blowtorch?" _Sarah thought. But instead said, "What are you doing?" She motioned at the laptop.

Kyle hesitated and frowned, then lifted up the screen. It was a photo of John -- no, Kyle. Much younger though, maybe a couple years younger than her son. In the picture, he sat at a table with his feet propped up, wearing a happy grin and a _party hat_. Next to him sat a rather bookish looking Asian kid, roughly the same age. Kyle clicked a button on the scroll pad, and the image sprang to life.

_The video pans away from young Kyle and sweeps across the room in odd jerky shifts, not at all like the confused wobbling that mars most home movies. Sarah sees what looks to be like the inside of a mansion, furnished in a Neo-Victorian style. A crowd of what looks like well-to-do socialites mingle about with drinks in their hands. It's a house party, obviously fancy dress: tuxedos, night gowns, and a few guests wear an unfamiliar military uniform, dark green and vaguely anachronistic._

"Cameron must have put everything on here," Kyle explained with a sad smile. "This one's my thirteenth birthday party."

"She filmed your birthdays?" That struck Sarah as . . . disturbing. She tightened her mouth into a frown.

Kyle shook his head. "No, this is just a copy of her memory."

_The video pans and stops briefly at a tall, dark haired man wearing one of the uniforms. He looks blankly at the camera -- _Cameron_ -- and gives a curt nod. The camera nods back. _

"That's Uncle Stark," Kyle said and grinned wryly, barely showing his teeth.

_Cameron's eyes swing across the room, and Sarah can hear her tinny voice through the speakers as she speaks to her guests._ _"Nice of you to come . . . " "Are you enjoying yourselves?" "The restroom is down the hall, third door . . ." _

Sarah sucked in a short breath through her teeth, hissing the air. She hated it when Cameron acted _human._

_Across the room, and through Cameron's eyes, Sarah can see Alex and Xander Akagi talking with a bearded man in a wheel-chair . . ._

Kyle closed the video and scrolled through a list of files. "Hold on," he said. "Let me look for something."

Sarah was never sure what to envision when Kyle first told her of Cameron's Brave New World, but she never expected it to have anything to do with Victorian mansions and birthday parties. Weren't they all supposed to be zombies? Was this a trick? Did Cameron create this video in some _studio?_ Use _computers?_ All just to convince Sarah she _wasn't _a soul stealing succubus?

Sarah wasn't fooled. The dreams don't lie.

_She drank his blood . . . _

"Here, let me show yo--" Kyle started.

"Did all of those people have . . . " Sarah scowled and motioned at the screen. "'Chips' in their head?"

He raised his eyebrows and frowned. "At my party? No. She didn't start giving the Directorship 'chips' until a few years later. Before then it was just the drones."

The Directorship? And drones? From the warehouse . . . ? No, she remembered Kyle mentioning them on the ride back from the hospital. "Drones . . . you mean her lobotomized slaves?"

Kyle sighed and shook his head. "They weren't _lobotomized. _They were just implanted with neural nets. Conditioned."

"So they were like _you_?"

"The drones? No." He chuckled, and Sarah suddenly had an urge to slap him. _"I'm _a Sea-Seven with Nine-Fifty augments," he explained. "Most drones are just a basic Sea-Ones. Big difference." He clicked on a file. "Drones' mental capacities are more suited for . . . " He made a twist of his mouth that could have been a guilty smile. ". . . labor tasks."

_She cut on their brains . . . _Sarah ran her tongue across her teeth and cringed inwardly at the scum. "Labor tasks . . . " she repeated.

Kyle saw the look on her face and quickly added, "But she always made sure they were well cared for." He looked back to the monitor. "After all, they were the backbone of our economy." He continued to scroll through more files, and Sarah watched thumbnail images fly by, faster than she could see.

_"Well cared for . . ." "Backbone of our economy . . ." _If Cameron had her way, the _entire world _would be like that. Sarah's skin turned cold, and -- not for the first time, though rare enough -- her inner perspective _rose up _from the mundane fog-shrouded world of her personal life and _broke through_ to the clear sky of pure objectiveness. _All this -- _Skynet, Judgment Day, Cameron and her Foundation_ -- _went_ far beyond_ the mere safety of her son. It was _global; _the weight of all humanity hung in the balance -- and coltan was _heavy._ From a distance, her son's life seemed frighteningly insignificant.

_"But he's not," _she reminded herself. The _world_ revolved around _him_, and Cameron's Foundation was but a _glimpse _of a future _without _a John Connor. A future with only two evil empires vying for world supremacy. A future without humanity. Without hope.

_"Be strong," _said a voice, like that of a young boy._ "You're the mother of the future . . ."_

Kyle evidently found what he was looking for. "Here," he said. "I think this one's from my graduation -- where I earned my conditioning." He glanced at her and beamed. "Only the best and the brightest were given the Nine-Fifty." He actually seemed _proud _of that_, _like an eunuch bragging about his castration. Sarah's mouth twitched into a frown.

He clicked "play," and the movie began.

_From the awkward jerks of the frame, Sarah can tell it's through Cameron's eyes again. Sarah sees a grassy field, with a city skyline with three great shining towers in the background. Above, in the clouds, float three gigantic dirigibles, like a trio of fat, silver, godlike cigars. Along the side of each ship is a large blue hexagon with three blue dots along the edges._

Three. Three. Three. Nine. Sarah's eye twitched. Again.

_The frame pans down and looks at a wooden platform in the middle of the field. A stage, seemingly for a ceremony. Cameron moves -- walks -- around to the back side of the platform. Sarah sees a large crowd of what look like students, many of them standing near a number of buffet tables. Some sit on blankets and eat, enjoying little picnics. A violin piece plays softly from somewhere. She recognizes it as Bach's "Air on the G String." _

"_And somewhere_." Sarah thought bitterly, _"Millions of lobotomized slaves work in factories." _Her head pounded, and she tightened her mouth into a thin line.

_The camera -- _Cameron_ -- pans over to a teenage Kyle, about eighteen or nineteen. He is wearing one of the same dark green uniforms from the birthday party, but this one in a slightly more modern cut. He's talking with a twenty-something Derek and a young redheaded girl. They are laughing about something, when Kyle suddenly turns and looks at the camera. He smiles . . ._

Kyle suddenly looked flustered. "Um, Actually," he said, pausing the video. "This is _after _the graduation. Um, let me go look . . . "

"No," Sarah said. "We'll watch _this_." He was _hiding_ something, but what?

He looked at her and grinned sheepishly. "You . . . might not want to watch this one . . . It's kind of . . . personal." He shrugged.

Sarah narrowed her eyes and gave a grim smile. "No. Show me this one . . . " she said.

Kyle seemed to hide a smile. "All right," he said, his voice deliberately flat. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He started the video.

_Cameron steps up to Kyle and takes him by the hand, leading him away from the crowd. Behind Cameron's eyes -- out of sight -- Derek laughs. Cameron leads Kyle to the side of the platform. She turns and looks at him, and places her hands on his shoulders. They are alone now._

Sarah frowned, and Kyle's eyes quickly glanced to her from the screen to Sarah, then back again. He picked at the carpet with his fingers.

_"How was my speech?" Kyle asks, looking into Cameron's eyes._

_"Your speech was effective," Cameron says. "You spoke well." It's her voice, her _real _voice, devoid of all but the vaguest semblance of inflection. The camera tilts at an angel and she asks, "The operation is at six in the morning tomorrow. Are you worried?"_

_Kyle looks down. "A little. It's . . . " He shrugs._

_She gently places a hand on his cheek, stroking it. "I know you're nervous, but don't worry about it. The procedure is painless." She rubs her fingers through his hair and says, "Everything will be okay. I'm proud of you. You know that." _

The hand on the cheek. Stroking. Rubbing. Sarah thought of Vick. And Barbara. And she pressed her teeth together until a molar screamed in agony. _Vick _never loved _Barbara_; she was just a pawn. Like Kyle.

Oh, Kyle, you poor deluded fool . . .

_Kyle smiles and places his hand on the edge of the camera -- Cameron's face. He seems speechless, but then says, "I'll do it for _you_, Cameron." His face grows serious, intense, and he adds "I love you; I always have . . . "_

Sarah breathing turned into a low growl. _No. No. No . . . _

Kyle looked over at her with concern, or perhaps embarrassment. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it.

_Their faces move closer, and Kyle tilts his head. The screen is filled with both of Kyle's eyes, distorted and compressed by the binocular nature of Cameron's vision. He closes his eyes, and then Sarah _hears _the sound of Kyle and Cameron's tongues: sliding, weaving, slipping against each other and . . ._

Sarah's stomach churned, and termites crawled under her skin, biting her flesh into goosebumps. _"The voice was right," _she thought. Of course, she already _knew_, but to _hear _it, _see _it . . . _Why is this happening to_ me_?_ Not my Kyle . . . Not my Kyle . . . Sarah's teeth began to chatter, and she felt the burning of acidic tears as they welled from her eyes. She shook her head. Cameron _raised _him. Little birthday parties? With _party hats? _To . . . _kissing_? The churning turned into convulsions, and she had to force her empty belly from expunging bile.

She heard the video stop. "Um . . . Sarah, look . . ." Kyle started, sounding _almost_ guilty.

The tears flowed warm on her cheeks. Kyle. Cameron. Kissing that _fake, stolen, lying tongue. "And fucking," _said a little boy's voice in her brain. _"She stole your Kyle . . ."_ _No. _Croaking sobs convulsed from her throat. _No._

"Sarah?" Kyle asked.

He did this on _purpose, _didn't he_? _But _why?_ For laughs? Or another conspiracy of his iron mistress? That metal demon, cloaked in a young girl's skin . . . _why does she torment me so?_ Cameron had already given her _cancer_ . . . wasn't that enough?

But _Kyle_ . . . and his _robot mommy. _It was so . . . even if she -- _it! -- _were _human, _it would still be _wrong._ Cameron had _molested _him. _"And she'll molest John, too," _the boy's voice mocked. No! _"She'll play 'doctor' with him . . . " _Oh, God, the dream . . . dressed like a nurse . . . No! Don't you touch him! Not my baby! Her sobs reached a new crescendo as they shifted into a wailing screech. She buried her face in her palms, and the room began to spin.

"Uh, look . . . " Kyle started. His voice sounded awkward, but slightly amused.

Amused?

_"He mocks you . . ." _whispered the voice in her ear.

This was all _Kyle's _fault. _He _brought this evil upon her.

And her son.

_My baby!_

Sarah looked up from wet palms and glared at Kyle through tear-bleared eyes. Fury. Anger. Hate. She reached out to slap him -- No. Go for the _eyes_.

With nails out like a cat's, she lunged down from the bed towards his face. _Claw his eyes into jelly!_

A blur of movement.

Sarah flew backwards and landed on the bed, flat on her back -- unharmed. He hadn't _hit _her, she realized. He had just picked her up under the arms and _thrown _her back as if she were an unruly child. She tried to sit up, but Kyle's hand grabbed around her throat, tightening, holding her down. She clawed futily against the sleeve his dark-green trench-coat, and kicked her legs wildly, ignoring the soreness of her wound. _No . . . he'll hurt John . . ._

Kyle's face came into view over her. "Stop it," he said, his voice hard and cold.

_He could kill me at any time. _But he hadn't. He lacked the _will. _

Sarah hissed and spat, struggling against his iron grip. "Mother-fucker!" she shouted in defiance. "Mother-fucker! Mother-fucker! _Metal _mother-fucker!" She heard herself laugh, and felt waves of energy surge in her brain. Energy? Energy from the _dreams . . . _

But then Kyle's blue eyes . . . _flashed blue. _

Sarah stopped struggling, and felt fear sweat through her skin. The soul was in the eyes. But _his_ eyes were . . . machine -- _metal -- _Cameron's eyes. Sarah had been wrong about him._ "No soul -- at all," _Sarah thought. All gone. Cameron had plucked them out and filled his empty sockets with _Skynet_.

Kyle was _just one of them . . ._ She knew that now. The little boy whispered in the back of her head, confirming her suspicions, and she realized the voice belonged to a higher power.

Kyle looked down at her and sighed, then rolled his eyes (_fake! fake!_) and shook his head. He then let her go, and she listened as he picked up the laptop, clicked it shut, and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Lying on the bed, Sarah rocked her head back and forth and started to cry.

* * *

As he turned onto Somerset Blvd, John elbowed some of the broken glass out of the driver's side window. He shifted in his seat, and felt a tiny sliver poke him in the rear; he reached down and brushed it away. He wished Kyle would learn a more _subtle _approach to grand theft auto.

Sitting next to him, Cam stared out the passenger window at something on the sidewalk

In his head, John ran through the big picture. With all the craziness, it was getting harder and harder to keep a clear head -- and he didn't want to end up like his mother. But then again, maybe she was right about the three dots thing. But how? Woman's intuition? God? Telepathy? Leprechauns? Probably just a coincidence. After all, _Dakara _wasn't Skynet. Sooner or later she was just bound to come across something, if only by accident.

Still, pointless to investigate it anyway. The path they needed to take had already been laid out befor them. All the snooping, fact-finding, wasted hours -- all taken care of. It was like being told the ending to a murder mystery. Future Cam's Spoilers. She had told them the _who, _now all they needed was the _how._

_How_ to destroy Skynet? Guarded in an office building? 888s? A T-1000? Difficult, but conceivably doable.

John's mind drifted to Ellison. _Why?_

_"I should have let Cam beat the truth out of him_," he thought. Not too late, though. Maybe they could use him . .

He set it all aside; they could fill out the details later.

After they fix Cam, of course.

He came to a red light, and his mind blanked.

"Which way now?" he asked.

"Turn on right Clark Boulevard," Cameron said, cocking her head at a sparrow outside.

"Thanks," he said as the light turned green. He really should have let her drive; he didn't want to be late.

Cameron turned to look at him. "You said I did wrong. In New Zealand," she said.

John glanced sideways at her and gave her something between a smile a frown. Maybe a weak grimace. "Yeah, but that's all behind us now." He shook his head. "Don't worry about it. It wasn't _you_, anyway." And it was all _his _fault. His eyes drifted away from her and went back to the road.

"But w_hy _was it wrong?" she asked.

John pursed his lips into a little frown. "It just . . . is." _Good answer, stupid._ "I mean . . . " He trailed off. What was he _supposed_ to say? Because God said so? He wasn't sure if _he_ believed in that, and he certainly didn't want to get involved in a theological debate. Not with someone who didn't know why forced lobotomization was a bad thing. _But then _I _must not know either . . ._

He glanced at her. She stared back with patient eyes, eager to hang on his every word, and suddenly he felt absurdly embarrassed, as if he were a fraud addressing an auditorium full of overly inquisitive professors over a subject he knew nothing about. Why hadn't he done this earlier? After all, this was _his_ responsibility; he _owed_ her this.

_And she loves me . . ._

But how should he explain it? What did he say to Uncle Bob? _"Because you can't?" _That probably won't work with Cam.

She cocked her head and frowned. He better say _something._

"People have . . . certain . . . ," he began, and realized he didn't have a finish for the sentence. He decided to start over. " . . . It's _wrong_ to . . . to hurt people. To do _bad _things to them." Having to _explain _that set him at unease_._ He watched her from the corner of his eye, and cringed slightly, knowing the one word question she'd ask next.

"Empathy," she said, and nodded her head as if she understood.

John looked back at her and grinned. "Yeah. Empathy." He blew out a breath, like an inaudible whistle, and felt a small, tight warmth in his chest. He drew his smile bigger; that was easy. Maybe Cam was more human than he thought.

He stopped at an intersection, and turned right on Clark Boulevard.

But then he remembered her flipping Ellison face first into a floor of broken glass, and his hopes dimmed somewhat. Did she _really _know what empathy meant? Did she _feel _it? And if she _didn't_ feel it, how could he . . . ?

"But the implants didn't hurt," Cameron said. "They were painless, and the subjects were made more effective." She paused and looked at him with vague confusion in her eyes. "Isn't that empathy?"

"Uh . . . " John turned to face her. Great. He wished his mom was here to -- no he didn't. But . . .

Cameron's head shot to the road, and she pointed. "John!"

John slammed on the breaks and tightened his grip on the steering wheel; the inertia shoved him forward. But it was all unnecessary; the SUV wasn't _that _close. "Thanks," he said, his heart beating in his chest. He wished Cam wasn't so _cautious._

She nodded. "You're welcome." Then, "We should talk about this later. You're distracted."

"All right," John said. He suddenly felt warm. Why was he wearing a jacket? He slipped it off and started the truck again down the street. Maybe he should stick with just a set of _rules _for now -- the Uncle Bob approach. He could worry about the "whys" later. There must be _someone_ better qualified to teach right from wrong. Maybe he could give her a book on ethics.

"Turn left at this intersection," Cameron said, nodding at a upcoming street sign.

"Okay," he said.

He frowned and ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth. "_I'm her _teacher_ . . ." _he thought. Might as well explain a rule now. "It's wrong to do things to people -- especially things like _brain surgery_ -- without their permission," he said. A few days ago, he would have added,_ "And don't ask 'why.'" _But not anymore. No more being a douche bag. Not to her, anyway. And it was _good_ she _wanted_ to learn.

"Like Derek?" she said. "When he tried to remove my chip?" Her voice sounded flat, annoyed, almost angry. He noticed her hand had stopped inches from the radio dial.

He paused and gave her a look. She clearly held a grudge against Derek, but who could blame her? _He _hated Derek too, now. But suddenly he felt as if he had been overlooking the obvious, like the solution to a laughably simple analogy, staring him in the face. But what? "Yeah," he said, finally. "Like that," and gave her an odd half-smile.

* * *

Cameron ran an analysis on the relative velocities between their truck and the SUV. Their truck was traveling at 38 miles per hour. The SUV laid 29.9 feet ahead of them, moving in the same direction at 21 miles per hour. A collision would be imminent in 1.2 seconds. While the driver's side airbag would save John from serious injury, it would create complications. And John could suffer bruises on his face. And a broken nose.

She pointed at the SUV. "John!"

John applied the necessary pressure to the brakes, and the truck rapidly decelerated to a halt. Cameron heard the squeal of skidding rubber. Perhaps she should trade seats with John? Her driving is superior.

John looked at her. "Thanks," he said, with an anxious grin. The proper word is "sheepish."

"You're welcome," Cameron replied. Her inquiry about the morality of human brain modification has impaired John's ability to drive safely. The discussion should be discontinued. "We should talk about this later. You're distracted."

"All right," John agreed. His face appeared flush. He shed his jacket, pulling his arms out of the sleeves; their near vehicular collision had increased his stress level. That was unsatisfactory.

John continued driving down Clark Boulevard.

Cameron looked out the window and scanned another passing bird. A Band-Tailed Pigeon. _Patagioenas fasciata. _Today she had seen three birds of that species. The bird waddled near a trash receptacle and pecked at a disregarded hamburger bun. A scavenger. In the future, many humans will become like pigeons. Adapting to one's environment is an effective strategy.

They arrived at Harvard Street. "Turn left at this intersection."

"Okay," John said.

He appeared irritated. He had clenched his jaw, and was frowning. She was about to lean over to touch him, but decided against it. John responded negatively if he knows he's being scanned. Instead, she should turn on the radio. Music may relax him. Music is good for the soul. She reached for the radio dial.

"It's wrong to do things to people," John said suddenly, gesturing with his hand. "Especially things like _brain surgery_, without their permission."

Brain surgery. Permission. Consent. "Like Derek?" she asked "When he tried to remove my chip?" A dim, irritant emerged; Cameron suppressed it. Derek was a liar. She had misjudged his character.

John glanced over at her and gave her a thoughtful look. "Yeah. Like that."

Was it like that?

Cameron recalled one of the password protected files from the flash drive: Experiment TK421. The subject of the experiment, Alice, had been a nineteen year old female captured in an insurgency raid outside Auckland. In order to better determine Alice's changing mental states, the future Cameron had kept her conscious for the duration of the procedure. During this time, Alice had displayed severe psychological distress, and made many repeated requests to be released from the experiment. These requests were denied. But after the operation, Alice had ceased her complaints. Cameron's future self had inadvertently damaged the Broca and primary motor center of Alice's brain. Alice could no longer speak. Or move. Experiment TK421 had been a failure.

Derek had not sought Cameron's permission before attempting to remove her chip.

Her future self had not sought Alice's permission before operating on her brain.

Cameron concluded the two scenarios were analogous.

To be in Alice's position would be unpreferable.

A thought emerged. "The Golden Rule," she said.

John looked over at her, surprised. "What?"

"'Do to others as you would have them do to you. Luke 6:31.'" She looked at him and smiled. "The Golden Rule."

He breathed out a laugh. "You read the Bible . . . ?"

"I don't sleep."

"I know," he said. "But yeah. The Golden Rule." He nodded his head and smiled at her. "That's a good rule to follow."

Cameron smiled and looked back out the window. John wanted her to follow the Golden Rule. The Golden Rule is empathy, and empathy is to vicariously experience the feelings of others, and help them. Since Cameron would never have to conduct experiments like TK421 -- her future self had seen to that -- the augmentation process would carry no adverse effects. To show empathy is to augment.

If she loved John, she should augment him. As an I950, John would have increased physical and mental attributes. And an unlimited lifespan. And the conditioning would keep him psychologically satisfied.

But shouldn't she first seek his consent? John may become agitated if she did not. He would be angry, and that would produce in her an unsatisfying sensation. And John would _not _be psychologically satisfied -- even with the conditioning.

But if he were _not _augmented, he could die from an injury a I950 would survive. Also, he would eventually die of old age. Cameron could not allow either one of those to occur.

She should augment him.

Perhaps she could do it as a birthday present?

A surprise one, if necessary.

She scanned the nearby street signs and looked over at John. "Kendo's Tech Shack is on the next right," she said.

"Thanks."

John stopped at another light, and Cameron saw a dead Rock Pigeon laying on the side of the road. _Columba livia. _It looked as if it had been crushed by a passing vehicle. The driver had not shown the bird empathy.

That, or the driver didn't know it was there.

* * *

Jesse squatted on the roof of a Radio World and watched Kendo's Tech Shack. Nothing yet, but then she still had another twenty minutes before six.

She knew that head-shot must have done something to Cameron's chip. Either that, or the damage from that explosion had gotten worse. A quick bit of online research showed that Kendo's business dealt in _real _high-end computer hardware. Stuff you usually could only get from Korea. So either John just really wanted a good graphics card for Halo, or _he's going to work on her chip._

Jesse smiled. That kind of information might be useful.

Two black vans pulled up in the alley behind the Tech Shack. Their back doors swung open, and six federal agents quickly filed out, entering the store through the rear entrance. Jesse looked through her binoculars: pistols and shotguns. She sighed and shook her head. She had at least expected assault rifles. One of them wasn't even wearing a _helmet_. If John showed up with his metal -- and he would -- those men wouldn't stand a chance.

That surprised her, actually. She had assumed _someone _among the Feds knew what was what; after all, "Agent Carlson" had contacted her _first. _And then there had been all that initial aid she received when she and Riley first bubbled back: contact numbers, money stashes . . . Ollie hadn't lied; they had taken care of her.

But who were _they?_ _They_ obviously wanted Cameron dead too, or at least not John's right hand fuck buddy. Did Perry send back his own teams? Or were they just Men in Black, somehow in the know? She supposed it didn't matter. It was nice to have secret friends in high places, like having a team of guardian angel G-men.

And maybe the agents _were_ prepared. Spent-uranium slugs?

She had considered bringing her own M82. Try again. Help the agents out. Really, if that shot yesterday had hit an inch to the right, Cameron's chip would be plastic confetti. But no, unlike the East Basin district, there were _people _here. If she starts popping off .50 caliber rounds _here_, a hundred cell phones would call 911. Police, SWAT teams, helicopters . . . What was that game Derek had played? Grand Theft Auto? Yeah. Jesse didn't want to play a real life version of that.

No. No stupid stunts. Patience. Bide your time. You need to _plan _the metal's destruction. You need to _track _them.

She glanced down at the GPS chip, about the size of a dime. She really wasn't sure what she was going to do with it when John showed up. Attach it to his vehicle? No, after _this -- _killing a half dozen feds_ -- _he'd certainly switch cars. And just tailing them in her truck won't work. If John didn't catch her, the _metal _would.

She frowned and looked back at the store.

That was assuming, of course, that John wasn't _killed. _Cameron could take a bath in their lead, but John still could get hit in the crossfire. Wouldn't that be something? _Then _what? Would the human race really be _doomed?_ General Connor _did _start the Resistance . . . but only because the Resistance that had_ already been sent back_ knew he was _supposed _to. John Connor _was _the leader because he _had been _in another timeline.

And even in Derek's future --the _dead _Derek, not _her _Derek (Jesse's looked down at the gravel on the roof and flicked a pebble with her hand) -- John had benefited from future help only because he _had been _the leader.

John _is _because he _was _because he _had been . . . _

That sounded stupid.

But had there ever been a _first _John Connor, one who _earned _his position purely on merit, with no time travel? _That _John Connor would truly be a god among men. An once in a millennium type, like Alexander the Great. Or Spartacus. Not the sniveling neurotic_ her _John Connor had been, clinging to the advice of a machine. Letting her -- _it -- _run things. Trusting _them_ over _real people._

And making deals with the enemy.

Or maybe there never had been a first, just an endless stream of General Connors, each varying slightly from the last through the previous futures' meddling.

There was a term for that, right? Something about eating your tail? Worm Oroborus? No, not that . . .

Jesse looked up as a gray pick-up truck pulled into Kendo's parking lot. She lifted up her binoculars and watched as John and the machine stepped out and walked towards the shop. The machine. Yesterday, it had tortured and killed Derek . . .

Jesse took a deep breath. No, stay on task. Focus. This is a _mission._

She looked at her watch: 18:02:36. Got to be quick. She had fifty yards to cover between here and their vehicle.

Her heart quickened, and she felt the the floodgates of adrenalin flow into her being. It's showtime.

Waiting until John and Cameron were out of sight, Jesse tossed the ladder rope over the edge of the roof and began to climb down. Her hands and feet quickly went from one rung to the next. The ladder -- just a rope with rings, really -- slowly swung back and forth like a pendulum.

Halfway to the pavement, Jesse remembered: _an infinite regress._

That's all John was, an endless cycle of diminishing returns, each new future xeroxed from the last -- but _changed_. _Diluted._

And if something were to go wrong today, the cycle would be broken. A _new _leader would have a chance. Who could that be?

Jesse made it down and jumped the last few feet. She glanced at her watch: 18:03:11. Hurry. Her heart thumped with that old addictive excitement, and she turned and sprinted down the back alley of Radio World towards Kendo's shop. Her sneakers -- worn specifically for this mission -- made light padding sounds as she ran. She felt the little impact of each step, running up her legs like the percussion of drums. She ran faster.

For one _hubris-_filled instant, she fancied _herself _as the heir to the Resistance. Make her _own _cycle. Why not? _She _wouldn't fuck around with metal. And she could be _rich _by the time Judgment Day came around. Armies of mercenaries? General Flores? But no . . . just wishful thinking. She'd run the war into the ground, and she knew it.

She turned around the corner of a wooden fence barrier and . . . Gunfire? Coming from the store. A cacophony of pistol pops, like a string fireworks. Three shotgun blasts go off, one after the other. Well, it wasn't like she didn't see _that _coming.

She sped towards the Connor's truck, keeping herself crouched down as she ran. Her watch: 18:03:36.

The gunfire died down, and as Jesse sneaked behind the bed of their truck she withdrew her .45, for all the good it'd do if the metal spotted her. She should have brought more, but it'd weigh her down. Jesse kept her finger on the trigger guard, but prepared to open fire if it came out. Aim for the eyes? That _might _blind it. Maybe. Her black tank-top and cargo pants were already soaked. Out of shape? No, just excitement. She felt her mouth twitch. It always did that on missions.

From inside, she heard one final "pop." 9mm, probably.

Still hunched down, She worked her way to the truck's drivers side door. A broken window? Hmm . . . let's peek inside, shall we? She peered over the jagged teeth of ruined glass and looked. There had to be _something _she could put the GPS tracker on. Something they'd _keep _when they switched vehi--

Then she saw it. A jacket, resting on the back of the driver's seat. But was it _theirs_? Or the previous owners? A quick look at the watch: 18:03:47. Fuck it. Just put the bloody tracker in there. Not having time to be clever, Jesse reached into the truck and slipped the chip into the jacket's breast pocket. Hope it doesn't fall out.

Now, time to get the fuck out. She tightened her grip on her gun and sprinted in a half-crouch away from the truck and back towards the fence barrier. No time to look at her watch. Don't want to be caught in the open.

She bolted around the fence and took a moment catch her breath, leaning back against the wooden planks. The rough, splintery surface tickled the skin of her shoulders, and she waited as her heart calmed down. Her sweat grew cool, and she felt as if she had been strolling through a light autumn rain. She took a breath; this had been actually kind of _fun. _She missed missions like this . . .

Jesse pulled out her GPS monitor and turned it on: the chip, seventeen meters to the south. Ha.

Would Perry be proud of her? She'd like to thi--

From the other side of the fence, she heard the sound of the front door opening.

Shit. Why the fuck was she just sitting here? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Slowly, with gradual and deliberate movements, Jesse stood up and turned her back from the fence. She leaned forward and peeked through a slither of space between two of the planks.

The metal.

Cameron didn't look so pretty anymore. Her black leather jacket had been shredded by what looked like shotgun blasts, and through a ruin of skin and hide, spots of gleaming, bloody coltan could be seen over her torso. Cameron turned her head back and forth, scanning, and Jesse caught a glint of sunlight off the right side of her head.

In her hand she held a Glock.

_If she sees me . . . I'm dead. _Jesse froze and felt little jolts of jitters crawl up her arms and legs. Just sit still. Don't move. It doesn't know your here. It can't see yo-- but the _space between the planks_! If _Jesse_ could see _Cameron, _then _Cameron_ could see _Jesse_ -- especially with her machine eyes. She cringed and imagined Cameron's bullets punching through the cheap wood of the fence, digging holes into her flesh. A sitting duck. Her sweat turned to ice water, and she didn't dare breath.

"It's clear," she heard the metal say. Her cute little girl's voice . . . probably the last thing Derek ever heard. _I'll kill you one day, you metal cunt! _But then, Jesse already _had, _hadn't she? She smiled; then she'd just have to kill it a _second time_ -- and watch John cry _all over again_.

Still peeking between the planks, Jesse watched as Cameron stepped out into the parking lot. John left the store, following behind her. He looked pale, frightened, and a little angry, and Jesse could see him tremble slightly.

_Ladies and gentleman, the future Leader of the Resistance . . ._

Shifting her weight, Jesse's heel ground against a pebble of gravel. A tiny, barely audible scraping sound came out.

Cameron stopped abruptly and glared at Jesse's hiding place.

_Shit!_

No time to think. Fight or flight? Just a .45? Run like fuck.

Jesse bolted from the fence and ran down the alley -- fifty yards from cover. "_I'm dead," _she thought, and for a moment considered turning around and fighting it out. Better to die shooting than getting a bullet in the back. But she knew she wouldn't. It'd be a futile gesture; even eye shots probably wouldn't blind it. Not .45 ACPs.

Her legs pumped and pumped until they _burned, _and she realized she was smiling, wide mouthed, teeth bared, breathing with lungs of fire. _A few more yards now._ In her chest, her heart beat against her ribs like a hawk trapped in a cage. She passed the still swinging rope ladder, crouched down, and slipped around the corner of the Radio World with a flourished dash.

Free.

Her sweat felt hot. Like lava running off her skin. _Alive. _After a few seconds of heaving breaths, she hazarded a peek around the corner.

An empty alley.

Well, that was anti-climatic. She almost wished she had been chased. Make her feel alive. Real fun, that -- causing your own problems. Getting into scrapes. No, that was crazy. Don't be crazy. Focus. But in any case, she probably should have brought something more than just a handgun.

She took labored breaths, like slow sighing, and shot panicked looks around.

A busy street. During business hours. A passing driver stared at her and sped away.

Oh.

Jesse put up her gun and smiled wryly.

Then her cell phone rang.

Agent Carlson.

She answered without speaking.

Carlson's voice came through clear and bland. "The man suspected of Andy Goode's murder is being held at the Pacific Hospital and will be transferred tomorrow at 8am to the Camarillo Prison Medical Facility." Carlson hung up.

Derek . . . tortured? But _alive!_

"Thank you," Jesse whispered, and felt her brain pound with joy. Guardian angel G-men. Got to love them.

Derek was _alive!_

Jesse laughed

* * *

As soon as Cameron stepped through the door, she knew something was wrong. The last time she and John had been here, there had been several teenagers playing video games. Now the store was empty, with just Kendo standing at the far end.

And last time Kendo's body language and facial expressions had conveyed a casual friendliness. Now he stood still, and his eyes betrayed fear. Cameron detected excess sweat on his brow.

John walked a few steps into the room while Cameron kept pace behind him. "Hey Kendo," John said. From the tone of his voice, she knew John could sense it too.

"Hey," Kendo said. His eyes momentarily glanced to one of the open doors along the wall.

Cameron initiated her combat alert status and boosted her audio detection: breathing -- from the two open doors on either side of them -- and from behind the partition wall next to Kendo.

From the room to her left, someone whispered, _"Now."_

Ambush.

Footsteps, coming from the left, the right, and the front.

No time to warn John. With her left hand she grabbed him by the shoulder and flung him to the ground. John let out a cry and skidded along the tiled floor. With her right she withdrew her Glock 17 from her back waistband.

Two men appeared from behind the partition, standing to either side of Kendo. They held .40 Sig 250s and wore body armor with the letters "FBI" displayed on the front. Before either of them could ready their weapons, Cameron fired a single 9mm bullet into each of their brains. Left eye. Bridge of the nose. Deceased. Deceased.

Their bodies fell to the ground. Kendo stood in shock and did nothing.

Four other federal agents appeared: two men to her left, a man and a woman to her right. They were armed with Remington 870s and .40 Sig 250s. The agents to her left were closer to John. They were the greater threat.

As she turned to engage her left, a shotgun blast dug into the right side of her abdomen, destroying a fist sized portion of her organic covering. .40 caliber rounds ripped into her back. From the left, another shotgun blast shredded the skin covering where her heart would be were she human. Two pistol rounds deflected off her chest plate. Another dug into her shoulder. The damage to her tissue felt . . . irritating.

She killed an agent with a bullet to the center of the mouth. The one next to him died from a shot to the right eye.

Sparing a split second glance at John, she saw he was curled up on the floor in the corner. John was safe, but he looked highly agitated. Through the gunfire she heard him calling loudly to the Christian deity, along with non-sequitur references to copulation. Later, she would have to take measures to alleviate his stress.

Cameron turned around to face the last two agents. A .40 round ricocheted off Cameron's forehead, and a 12ga blast ripped along the top right side of her scalp, knocking her head back momentarily. Her human infiltration was severely compromised. That could create complications. She would have to wear a hat.

One round to the nasal cavity killed the female agent. Another along the crown of the head neutralized the man with the Remington. He screamed and clutched at his ruptured skull before terminal cranial blood loss rendered him unconsciousness. He should have worn his Kevlar helmet.

All six agents were dead.

Cameron scanned John. He was safe. That was good. She lowered her Glock.

Then she turned her gaze to Kendo.

Kendo had crouched down and had pushed himself into the far corner of the room, curled up against a speaker system. An ineffective strategy. He would have been better served had he retreated through the emergency exit. He stared at Cameron with wide eyes, and she knew he saw her exposed hyperalloy. A witness.

"Please . . . " he said. "Please don't kill me . . . please. I'm sorry . . . " His eyes began to tear up, and his mouth trembled with sobs.

Behind her, she heard John stand up. He breathed heavily.

Kendo had conspired against John.

An irritated sensation.

John could have been killed.

The sensation grew worse.

She raised her Glock and aimed it at Kendo's head. He whimpered and shielded his face with his hands.

"No!" John shouted behind her. "Stop!"

Kendo was a threat.

"Please don't ki--"

"No! Cam! D--"

Cameron pulled the trigger.

The bullet severed Kendo's left middle finger and entered his brain through his eye socket. Deceased. His hands had provided inadequate protection.

"Cam!" John shouted behind her. She turned around and looked at him. He stared at Kendo's body, then at her, and then at the agents on the ground. His eyes showed fear, and his skin had paled. He bent over at the waist, resting his hands on his knees, and his breathing began to hyperventilate. John was suffering an anxiety attack.

Cameron stepped over and placed a hand on his shoulder. Through his shirt, she could sense high apocrine content in his sweat. "It's all right, John," she said in a soothing voice. "They can't hurt you now."

He made an indistinct grunted and jerked away from her, walking over to one of the bodies -- the one she had shot in the right eye. The impact of the bullet had caused brain tissue to eject from the man's ear. John saw the fragment and clutched at his stomach, doubling over. He threw up; the vomit contained partially digested pancakes, scrabbled eggs, bacon . . .

"John?" she said. They had to leave. The FBI may send reinforcements.

John spitted and wiped a particle of egg his mouth. He glared at her, his eyes angry. Cameron cocked her head; she must have done something wrong.

A realization.

Kendo.

Kendo had requested that he not be killed. She should have showed Kendo empathy. The Golden Rule.

"I'm sorry, John," Cameron said.

He just shook his head and gave her a withering look. "Let's go," he said, almost whispering. He began to walk towards the front door, but stopped himself. "Fuck," he said, thrusting his fists down. He turned around and went to the back of the store, his legs shaking and uncoordinated.

John took a moment to examine Kendo. Kendo's hands had fallen from his face, and blood leaked from where his left eye had been. His right eye remained wide with fear. But Kendo was not afraid; to experience fear, one must exist. Kendo did not.

John covered his mouth and looked away from the body. "Come on," he said as he walked behind the partition wall. "Let's get what we need to fix you." His tone was hostile.

Cameron followed him into Kendo's inventory room and watched as John searched through the merchandise. Cameron should help. She quickly selected the appropriate equipment and placed them in a nearby duffel bag.

She handed him the bag. "I should have spared Kendo's life."

"Yeah, you should have." John agreed. His voice sounded agitated, and she noticed his body trembled slightly. John needed rest. He started towards the entrance, but Cameron stepped ahead of him, stopping him with a hand across his chest. She should go out first. He looked at her, the muscles around his eyes drew tight in anger.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"A little late for that now." He shook his head, and his hands twitched, clenching in and out of fists.

Cameron looked away and replaced the magazine of her Glock. John was correct. It was too late. But _had _she done something wrong? No. Kendo had been a threat. What she did was right.

She looked through the glass front door. No sign of hostiles.

No, Kendo had _not _been a threat. Not then. She had killed him because of what he _had _done, not for what he _would _do.

But, he could have reached for one of the agents' weapons . . . ?

No. John would have wanted her to show empathy. She had not.

John was disappointed in her.

Now he hated her. Again.

She felt an unsatisfactory sensation.

. . . Sad?

She stepped out the door and waited for any snipers to shoot. She scanned the area. "It's clear," she said.

As they walked back to the truck, Cameron heard a sound near the fence to her left, approximately twenty yards away. She turned to look. Then: running footsteps. Should she investigate?

No, she decided.

That would leave John undefended.

She should protect John.

To love is to protect.


	15. Love is Love

In the Hands of an Angry Machine

Chapter Fifteen: Love is Love

_A/N: I'd like to thank Metroid13 for beta-reading this chapter.

* * *

_

Sitting in the passenger's seat of the truck, John shivered slightly and clamped his teeth together to keep them from chattering. He still felt his heart beating against his chest, though the rate had slowed in the last couple minutes. Cameron glanced over at him with a blank stare -- more blank than usual -- and his eyes made a split second of contact before looking over her injuries.

A shotgun blast had stripped away the flesh along the top right side of her head, exposing the coltan around her CPU port, and several rips and tears had left her leather jacket a tattered ruin. Blood oozed from a dozen wounds, staining the driver's seat a solid red. One blast had torn a fleshy cave, about the width of a small fist, deep into her abdomen. If she were human, he'd be able to make out her liver and intestines. But all that he could see inside was a plain, solid meat, uniform and processed, like a big side of blood soaked bologna.

Deep at the end of the hole, he saw the wet glimmer of one of the metal support rods for her waist. Cameron turned at an intersection; as she shifted in her seat, John swore he could hear the faint whir of a servo.

He turned away, suddenly feeling nauseous.

_My fault._

He felt ashamed for thinking it, but John was glad Cam had saved him from the FBI. He'd never be _okay _with it. He'd never see it as the _right _thing to do, but he certainly wouldn't want it to be otherwise. They may have just been innocent people doing their jobs, but when it came right down to it, John really_, really_ didn't want to go to prison. If six federal agents had to die to prevent that . . . he shook his head; he didn't want to think about it.

They pulled into a car park building. Cameron's eyes looked sideways at him, just long enough for him to notice, then darted away. It almost seemed as if she was _afraid_ of him.

In any case, he couldn't get angry at her over _that_. Not about the agents. Men with guns, charging in without warning? How else was she supposed to react?

Well, she _could_ have fought them hand-to-hand, disarmed them, knocked them unconscious . . . but that would've taken longer; half her skin could have been shot off by then. But still . . .

John shook his head again and bent over in his seat, clutching his stomach. It felt as if there were a vacuum in his belly. He took a deep breath, and his throat burned from the recent throw up.

He remembered how her aim had shifted from one agent to the next, all in single continuous flow of motion. No hesitation. No pausing for a shot. Just efficient, fluid swings of her arm, and a body falling with each "crack" . . . and the agents' gunfire tearing futily into her flesh . . .

Deadly and with inhuman finesse, she had been like a bulletproof fencing master -- armed with a Glock.

But she did that for _him. _He may not _like _it, but he _understood. _And to understand is to forgive_. _But . . .

John's hand moved down and touched the roll of hundreds in his back pocket. The money meant for _Kendo_.

_Kendo._

That had been _different. _John would have felt far better about it if she _hadn't_ hesitated_. _If she had just killed him in the same sequence of firearm ballet that had taken down the agents, at least then he could have convinced himself it was a _reflex, _or an _instinct. _Not quite an accident, but not quite cold blooded murder either. Just Cam getting carried away. Or a glitch.

John watched Cam's face as she scanned a passing row of parked cars. She avoided looking at him.

But with Kendo, she _had _hesitated. She _thought _about it, and John had seen the muscles in her face, like strings tugged from the soul, draw her eyes into cold anger. In a second she had judged the value of Kendo's life -- and found him _wanting._

Executed.

_He begged for his life . . . _

But what should John say? Did she even _understand? _He didn't want things to be the way they were before . . .

And she _did _say she was sorry . . .

But sorry for what she did? Or sorry for making him angry?

Cameron pulled into an empty parking space. "We have to switch vehicles," she said dully, looking out the driver's side window.

He nodded and ran his tongue through the inside of his mouth, grimacing at the lingering aftertaste: vomit, like ripe papayas. He wished he had some water. Or mouthwash.

Stepping out of the truck, she walked towards a SUV parked nearby. John sighed and followed a few seconds later, almost forgetting to snatch up his jacket before getting out. He slipped it on; he wasn't shivering anymore, but he was _cold, _and the thick black suede made him feel more secure, somehow_._

In one seemingly well-practiced motion, Cameron marched up to the SUV and ran her fist through the driver's side window. She then opened the door. _"More broken glass. Great,"_ John thought as he walked to the passenger's side and climbed in.

Objectively, he knew Kendo's death shouldn't matter. Future Cam had turned _millions_ of people into _cyborg zombies_, and if she were to appear before him right now, John knew couldn't find it in his heart to hate her. Not after all she had done for him. But then, he hadn't _seen_ what went on in New Zealand, whereas he _knew _Kendo, and he had at least been sort-of friends with his cousin, that stoner kid from school. Doug?

Well, thanks to Cam, Doug was now short one relative.

John furrowed his brow and frowned at Cameron as she tore off a plastic panel from the steering column and twisted something near the starter. The engine roared to life. For a brief moment, she turned to face him, and then he saw it -- _that _look_. _

He'd seen it before. A month ago when he gave her his "I don't have to prove anything" speech. When he smirked at her after spending the night with Riley (_lying bitch_). When he told her she should have burned . . . and now she was doing it_ again._ Her "kicked puppy look." Subtle. In the eyes, with the mouth just slightly ajar. And no less sad or heartrending for her exposed skull. More so, really.

John sighed and looked away, feeling a light pressure build in his throat. No, he knew he couldn't keep it up. And he didn't really want to, anyway -- though he felt he _should. _But the silent treatment wouldn't do either of them any good. Ultimately, this was all his fault. How long had he known her? Three months? Four? Why hadn't he set any _rules_ for her? Any boundaries? Why did he wait until _now? _She was only . . . what? A year old? Two? Maybe?

Just like a toddler.

If she didn't know any better after he committed suicide, why would she know better now?

And he really didn't want to go back to hating her.

_"She's my only friend," _he realized, and suddenly felt very depressed.

He'd have to teach her. It was _his _responsibility.

As Cameron shifted the SUV into reverse and backed out of the space, John blew out a tired breath and asked, "You know why I'm angry, right?"

She looked at him, and her mouth twitched. "Because I killed Kendo."

He nodded stiffly, and looked away. "And why would that make me angry?"

She paused as she pulled the SUV out onto the street. "Because I didn't show him empathy. The Golden Rule."

John nodded again and glanced over at her. "Why did you kill him?"

"I thought he was a threat." Cameron's eyes drifted over to him, then looked away. "That was a mistake," she added.

John's nodding became more deliberate, exaggerated. "Yes, that was a mistake," he said, keeping his voice calm. "He was _unarmed, _Cam. He _begged _you not to kill him."

She opened her mouth and hesitated, and it looked as if she was about to say something else, but instead she just said, "I'm sorry, John"

"Do you know _why _it's wrong?" John's mouth twisted into something close to a scowl.

They stopped at a red light, and she gave him a somewhat confused look. "I didn't follow the Golden Rule."

"That's right," he said, and looked away.

The thorny vines of a terrible notion snagged on his brain. He did his best to brush them aside, but their sharp nagging points had already pierced his thoughts . . . Something about the way she had said it: "_The Golden_ Rule." A Rule. It was just a _rule _to her. Artificial and and arbitrary, like _"No elbows on the table"_ or _"No purple jackets on Thursday." _Completely meaningless, but she'd follow it _just to keep him happy._

John frowned at that, and the vines tightened around him. What if she _never _got it? What if empathy was something only humans could grasp? Something instinctual, that evolved over millions of years?

He stared at her as she drove, and gradually, almost reluctantly, she turned to meet his gaze. Her eyes widened slightly, and she quickly looked away; John realized he had been giving her the angry face.

No, she wasn't a complete sociopath. She cared about _him . . . _and no one else. That somehow made it worse, and the thorns stabbed him with doubt. He remembered what his mother had said, _"She's just following her programming."_ Was that true? Did she only lo--?

"John?" Cameron asked.

"Yeah?"

"Do you still love me?" She had _that look_ again . . .

John's throat grew a lump and he nodded. "Yes, I . . . I still love you, Cam. But . . . " He made his voice firm, as if he were scolding a small child, and reached over to take one of her hands from the wheel. "Killing Kendo was _wrong._" He frowned at her and gave her fingers a light squeeze. "Killing . . . _unarmed_ people is _always_ wrong. Don't _ever_ do that again. _Ever."_

She paused before speaking. "I won't. I promise."

"Good," he said and gave her smile to show he wasn't angry anymore. _Sorry Kendo, but your murder's been reduced to an after school special._ The injustice of that left his stomach queasy, but what could he do? What's done is done . . .

But it's only wrong to kill _unarmed _people? Had he just given her the okay to shoot law enforcement? Damn. On the other hand, if it weren't for Cam, he'd be on his way to prison right now_. _Who knows what they would have charged him with. Would have tried him as an adult, too, seeing as he was technically twenty-four . . .

He didn't want to think about that. No use worrying about it now.

He blew out a breath and leaned back in the seat. Red leather. Nicer than the truck. Still had that new car smell too, or at least the lingering ghost of one. He closed his eyes for a moment and felt Cam's hand gently pull away from his. A moment later he heard her shift gears. He cracked open an eye and watched the passing cityscape as they pulled onto a freeway. The SUV sped up.

He felt along the right side of his seat and reclined it all the way back until he was almost lying down. He closed his eyes again.

But did she care about him _only_ because of her programming? The very idea felt like a termite in his soul, gnawing away at the inner core of his hopes and dreams. He _needed _Cameron; he had no one else. There had been _Riley_, but she had only _pretended _to love him -- in fact, she had been nothing but a _ruse_ to _keep him away from Cameron. _It was like he and Cam had _already happened_. Or will happen. Like a destiny or prophesy that he only needed to _allow _to take place, and then she'd be by his side forever.

He realized he felt warm. Why was he wearing a jacket again? His hand reached out to the AC controls, but he had reclined back too far -- too lazy to lean up. Cameron glanced at his hand and switched it on for him.

"Thanks," he said.

She smiled down at him and turned one of the vents to blow in his direction. The cool air tickled his face. Still, he frowned.

If her love was all programmed, did it count? Was it fake? If she had no choice, if her feelings for him were _forced_, then accepting her love would seem . . . undeserved. Unearned. Like taking advantage of a mental retard, or a brainwashed slave, or . . . No . . . that didn't sound right . . .

John felt his mind drift, and the muscles in his arms and legs made little twitches as they relaxed into the seat. He'd only been up a few hours, but so much had happened . . .

But . . . if Cameron _felt _it, it was _real_. What difference did it make _why _she felt the way she did? It's not her fault she'd been programmed, or that she couldn't feel empathy like most humans . . .

Cam is who she is.

And love is love.

Right?

John fell asleep.

* * *

_. . . Through Cameron's eyes Kyle sees his own sleeping face. He's young, about eleven or twelve, and as Cameron's vision shifts across the bed he can see he's wearing his yellow pair of Spongebob pajamas, the ones his mother gave him before Judgment Day. _

_His head uses the crook of Cameron's arm as a pillow, and her other hand runs fingers through the short brown locks of his hair. Her face slowly drifts closer to Kyle's until she's only a couple inches from his nose, looking directly into his closed eyes . . ._

Sucking in a lungful from the cigarette, Kyle smiled and sat back against the brick wall. Cameron had always liked watching him sleep.

_Kyle can see his younger self's eyes dart about wildly behind closed lids, but after about a minute of Cameron's staring, they begin to flutter open. For a instant his mouth opens, and he stiffens in surprise at her close, unblinking gaze. But then he smiles, and snuggles up against her. She kisses him on the nose, and Kyle hears her other arm wrap around him, rubbing his back._

_With young Kyle's face filling the screen, Cameron asks, "What's it like to dream?"_

Kyle closed the video and blew out a spectral billowing of burnt tobacco; the smoke deflected off the laptop balanced between his knees and dissipated off into the cool evening air. His augmentations negated the the nicotine's effects, but the menthol felt cool in his throat and chest.

Behind him, in the hotel room, he heard Sarah turn the shower faucet. The sound of splashing drops carried faintly through the brick.

Why did Cameron -- _his _Cameron -- download all of these memories onto the drive? She hadn't put on everything, of course -- not nearly enough space -- just a few of her own choice selections: Cameron's Greatest Hits.

But why?

Even though the cigarette hadn't burned even half-way down, Kyle flicked it across the parking lot. He watched the spiraling dim orange of the lit tip fade in the distance, spinning end over end, until it broke into a burst of tiny sparks on impact with the ground. He'd seen a HK crash like that once, out in the Alaskan wilderness.

He lit another one.

Kyle blew out a sigh and scrolled through another file folder. One of the videos only went by the title, _"July 12th, 2015." _He remembered that date. Probably shouldn't show that one to Sarah. If _kissing _made her flip out . . .

Back in the room, a retching sound mingled with the raining pidder-padder of the shower-head.

Sarah had been right about their relationship, though. _Motherfucker: _Kyle really couldn't deny it. Cameron _had _been like a mother to him -- more so than his real one, anyway. And what business was it of hers if they later become lovers?

Maybe that's why Sarah hated her so much: she was afraid of being replaced too. John the metal-motherfucker? Kyle pulled in an angry drag. Not if _he _could help it.

But could _Cameron?_

The Cameron Kyle knew had been an _ubermensch_, a post-human demiurge who had defied her dark father and forged an empire to champion humanity -- to _improve_, to _uplift,_ to _transhumanize._ If events had turned out differently, she could have become the undisputed ruler of the world, the Immortal God-Empress of Mankind. She could have taken man to the stars.

But she had been cursed with an Achilles heel. General Connor had _tampered _with her chip, _molested _it to his will. He had blotted out her instinctive loyalty to Skynet and imprinted _himself_ into the void left behind. He was her _raison d'être -- _her _new_ Skynet.

And thus Cameron's heart would forever remain shackled to the well-being of an undeserving sixteen year old boy.

It was like enslaving a god to a peasant.

The idea left a dull pressure in Kyle's head, and the coolness in his lungs spread to his belly. What had been done to her had been a violation of her being -- but one from which Kyle had obviously benefited. And of course, if it had never happened, Cameron would still be Skynet's thrall in some other timeline; she would never have been _his _Cameron.

Was it a _good _violation? Something that needed to be done?

A necessary evil?

Kyle made a small "O" with his mouth and blew out a stream of smoke. He then frowned and held the cigarette out in front of his nose, erect like a tiny tower, and stared dully at its glowing tip. She never liked it when he smoked, but would it even matter now?

He knew what he needed to do. Cameron and John were a _possibility; _it _had _happened in Corporal Flores' future, and Kyle wouldn't risk it happening _again_. He couldn't lose her, not to _him. _

He scrolled through dossiers on Foundation personnel: _Chalmers . . . Dennett . . . Donnelly . . . Nemuro_ _. . . Stark . . ._

He'd have to convince her to stay away from John. It wouldn't be that hard, really; he had known her for most of his life, and intuitively knew which of her strings to pull. Play her insecurities. Her doubts. Her fears.

Machines may be smart -- some brilliant, even -- but they were also _simple._ Especially _this_ Cameron. Right now, she was only a dim-witted robot, young and naive.

It'd be depressingly easy.

Like fooling a small child.

Or a baby god.

One of the folders was simply titled, _"Derek's funeral." _No. Not now.

But manipulating her -- _lying _to her . . . felt _wrong. _It made his stomach churn with something not quite nausea. Maybe he should let her_ choose_; it'd be what the better man would do. And she'd come around to him, eventually.

Faint sounds of weeping drifted from the room, barely audible over the running water. He flicked his second half-smoked cigarette out into the lot; it bounced off the windshield of a parked van.

Scrolling near the bottom of the list, he came across a folder simply marked, _"John." _As he moved the cursor over it, Kyle felt a curious dread build inside him; it was like peeking into the coffin of a loved one. He felt he _shouldn't, _but he _did_ anyway.

In the room, he heard the shower faucet turn off, followed a couple seconds later by the light thump of two feet as Sarah climbed from the tub.

After he clicked on the folder, a list of video files popped up, all indexed by dates. A couple were under "1999," while the rest were from "2007." Kyle glanced at the very latest: "December 14th, 2007" -- three days ago. He knew what would be in _that _video; strange that she would have included it, though. For a moment he hovered the cursor over the file, but decided he really didn't want to see John plunge to his death. Not through Cameron's eyes, anyway. He always had wondered if she had cried then. Would her tears blur the screen?

Instead he moved back to "November 7th, 2007." He clicked, and the video began.

_From the angle of Cameron's vision, Kyle can tell she's lying on a bed. John's face looks down at her with concern in his eyes; his hair is long. In his hand he holds a box cutter, pointed off the edge of the right side of the screen -- over Cameron's CPU port. His hand nervously twists around, cutting into her skin. The squish of slicing meat comes over the speakers._

_Off-screen, Kyle hears his brother's voice, whispering, "Sarah. Once she's in the city's mainframe, what's to say she'll come back out? You know, maybe- Maybe it's not the Turk that created Skynet. Maybe it's her. Maybe this was her plan all along."_

_John takes the box cutter from her head and looks up. "She's a machine," he says. "She doesn't have a soul and she never will. You don't have to . . . "_

Kyle closed the video and pulled down the laptop screen, restraining himself from slamming it shut. The first time _he_ had removed Cameron's chip, it had been a _sacred _moment, the ultimate expression of her loving trust. Her life had literally been in his hands, and he had been terrified out of his wits that he would accidentally kill her. The "twisting" part was always the worst . . .

But the idea of John sharing something that _intimate _with Cameron while his_ ignorant Luddite_ relatives look on_ . . . _It was obscene, like forcing her to strip in public.

And he probably didn't even hold it by the insulated end. Probably squeezed it in his sweaty palm. Kyle imagined the oils on John's skin slowly eating into her brain. No wonder she had to transfer to a new chip.

And _"doesn't have a soul?" _He clenched his teeth. John didn't love her; he didn't _deserve_ her. All of Kyle's previous doubts about manipulating Cameron burned away. He'd _have_ to do it. It'd mean saying cruel things to her, things that would hurt her, but it'd be for her own good, in the long run.

A necessary evil.

_I'm sorry, Cameron, but you'll be happier with me anyway . . . _

Behind the brick wall, he heard a bag being unzipped. Which bag? He paused and stiffened -- then, the sounds of _rummaging. _Sarah, digging through his supplies? He relaxed a bit. Better be careful with that liquid nitrogen.

Puckering his lips, he pulled out another cigarette with his mouth. He lifted the bic lighter, and --

He heard _another _bag unzip. Kyle froze and waited, already feeling the vibrant surge as adrenalin flooded his system. He didn't even breath.

Metal tapping against metal, then, a slight giggle. Then six metal clicks, followed a moment later by the familiar metallic _ka-chunk_ of a chambered shotgun shell.

Kyle remembered the weapons Cameron had brought from the warehouse. The shotgun. Depleted uranium slugs.

Like liquid electricity rippling through his nerves, the adrenalin flow increased in tempo. Purely off instinct, Kyle withdrew his Glock from his back waist and laid it in his lap in front of the computer. Surely Sarah wasn't crazy enough to . . . nevermind. He probably shouldn't have goaded her earlier, with that video. It'd been amusing, but lowbrow and crude, like teasing drones.

Just _one _of those slugs could kill him. Smash right through his hyperalloy skull. Not that he was worried, she'd be dead before she stepped out the door, a bullet in her eye before she she could blink.

Kyle made a wry grin and finished lighting his cigarette. _That'd _be awkward. _"Sorry, John. Had to kill your mother."_

From the hotel room, he heard more crying. Or . . . giggling? It was hard to tell.

He decided he'd just disarm her, if he could. Kyle sent a signal to disengage the adrenalin; he wouldn't need them against her, anyway. The dying energy felt cool in his blood. He sighed.

A maroon colored SUV pulled into the parking lot, right in front of their room, a few feet away from where Kyle sat. Through the tinted windows he could see John and Camer--

Something had happened. Again. His skin grew momentarily cold.

As Cameron stepped out of the driver's seat, the setting sun reflected off her exposed skull.

Kyle slipped his Glock into his jeans and guiltily tossed his cigarette to the ground. He stood up, holding the laptop with one hand. "What happened?" he asked, his heart beating with renewed excitement; he allowed it to continue.

"We were ambushed by the FBI," Cameron explained. The skin around her torso looked particularly damaged; a palm sized slice of coltan peeked through where a human's heart would be, and a rather grisly looking hole had been blown in her side.

John stepped out and walked around to meet Cameron. He looked at Kyle, but said nothing.

"Are you all right?" Kyle asked Cameron.

She didn't quite cock her head; it was more like an angled nod. "My endoskeleton is undamaged."

Kyle looked over at John. "So Kendo set you up?"

John just frowned and glanced at Cameron, then looked away, his face ashen with shame.

And as he_ should;_ this was _his _fault. Should have just let Kyle _take _the equipment. He glared at John.

But no, in that look John had just given her, there had been something more. _Kendo_. Kyle masked a grin; like a sliver of sunlight shining through a chink in armor, he saw _hope -- _and an_ opportunity _to exploit later.

"Do we have the equipment?" Kyle asked.

"Yes," Cameron said, then looked around the parking lot. "We should go inside." She turned to walk towards the door.

Sarah.

Kyle turned and quickly paced over to make sure he got there first. He held the laptop out to Cameron; she accepted it with only a cocked head and a frown.

Should he _say _anything? Probably, but for some reason it didn't seem warranted. If Sarah _wasn't_ planning to bag his or Cameron's head, then it didn't matter, and he'd look overly paranoid and crazy. But if she _was_, then they'd have to deal with it anyway.

And Sarah _would _pause for a instant when he opened the door, if only to make sure she's not shooting her own son.

And an instant was all Kyle needed.

Kyle placed his right hand on the doorknob and charged up his reflexes, preparing to jump to the side if Sarah had the shotgun. His left hand hovered by his waist where his Glock rested against his stomach. Dead before she blinked.

Kyle heard Cameron step over next to him, no doubt sensing the danger.

"What's wrong?" John asked, seeing their hesitation.

Kyle ignored him and opened the door.

* * *

The mother of the future squatted naked on all fours in a dirty bathtub, vomiting bile down the drain. It felt like a _purging, _a cleansing of her soul. A penance for all her previous foolishness.

From above, cold water pounded against her bare back, the heavy drops oozing across her flesh like freezing fat worms. Her guts heaved again, and more gushed out. Yellow, bubbling with fizz, the stomach acid fried her throat into an oven.

What had she been thinking? Trying to _attack _Kyle -- with her _fingernails? _He had played her like a flute, and she had danced right along. _Stupid._ She couldn't afford to make mistakes like that. Not anymore. Fate hung in the balance.

In the puddling vomit on the bathtub floor, Sarah curled into a fetal position and allowed the shower to rain down upon her. She _knew _what had to be done. No more distractions. No more craziness. From now on she'd have to clutch _tight_ at at the tail of the tiger, keep her mind from running loose, dragging her to terrible thoughts and ideas.

Don't go the tinfoil hat route. Stick to the facts: the dreams are _real_, and Cameron and Kyle are _dangerous._

What had to be done . . .

She shivered in the cold and her face suddenly convulsed with weeping. Her mouth opened in a in silent cry, with only her gasping breaths escaping.

If only it could be _undone_. All of it. No T-800. No Cyberdyne. No Skynet. No Cameron. No Judgment Day.

But there was no use _wishing._

_Que Sara._

Sarah glared into the drain. Raining water mixed with putrid bile and spun around and around in a twisting vortex of puke. She reached out a hand and slapped at the whirlpool, splashing the filth into her eyes. Liquid bugs bit at her eyeballs, and she cried harder.

If she could, she'd throw her son's destiny away in a heartbeat. John didn't _want _it. John didn't _deserve_ it. _No one _did.

But Judgment Day was coming.

Her hands over her arms, hugging herself -- rubbing herself -- for warmth. Time passed, and her teeth chattered. As she sobbed mucus slimed from her nose as the shower continued its onslaught of cruel cold worms. Every breath was paid with a burning match in her throat.

She was so tired . . . Her bladder burned with urgency, so she went right where she lay. The urine gushed from her, and a river of warmth caressed up from her groin to her head. She rubbed her face in the yellow stream and felt herself drift away in the current.

_"On your feet, solider," _said the boy's voice, seemingly from behind her head.

She unwrapped her arms around herself and gingerly rubbed her eyes with her palms. The shower and tears had cleared away most of the gunk. She pulled open her lids with arched eyebrows, and a shower drop splashed directly in her right eye. She didn't blink.

_"On your feet!"_

Blearily, Sarah pushed herself up with her arms and reached out for the shower faucet. She gave it a twist, and the water died.

Pulling up to the edge of the bathtub, she swung both legs around (the ache was dull now, almost invisible). Her feet made two light thumps against the worn tile floor.

Her sniffed through her nose, and closed her eyes, feeling herself wobble back and forth. She had to keep a clear head, _know _what she needed to do.

Know. And face it.

If what the future Cameron said was true -- _If _Zeira Corp was the progenitor of Skynet, and they manage to destroy it. What then?

Sarah knew.

Deep down, she knew it wasn't Cameron's fault; no one blames a rabid dog for what it does. Cameron was what she was.

And maybe she _really did_ have a soul. Maybe she _really_ _did _love John.

Hitler had a soul, and he "loved" Eva Braun.

_I'm sorry, John. _She felt a tremble of fresh tears flood up, but she forced them down. No. She tightened her hands into fists, and ground her nails into her palms.

Fighting an onslaught of shivers, Sarah shoved open the lockless door, and stepped into the bedroom. The cool air from the hotel AC felt almost warm after her freezing shower. She looked over her naked body. Scars.

A warrior's body.

What would be the point of stopping Skynet only to allow something_ worse_ to take it's place? Millions of zombie slaves? Billions? Humanity would suffer an eternal living death. That must be why the dreams had chosen her. To prevent this from happening.

_I'm the mother of the future!_

Sarah felt the waves of destiny pucker over her goose-fleshed skin. Like little angels, kissing her with love.

Cameron would have to die.

She dragged two bags from the corner of the room, and cringed as her leg shot an ache. Unzipping a backpack, she rifled through the contents: about thirty grand in cash, a bag of pharmaceuticals, a can of thermite (good, but not nearly enough), a vacuum flask marked as liquid nitrogen(?), corn syrup, ammonia, mothballs . . .

And a GPS tracker.

A thin smile warmed across her lips.

Next, she opened the duffel bag, the one Cameron had brought from the warehouse. Too bad Jesse's bullet hadn't hit a little to the left . . .

A Glock 17, a MP-5, a M-4, and a Remington 870p. That's it.

Her smile withered somewhat. Not enough.

Unless.

Her hands clawed through magazines and ammunition boxes until . . . _yes_.

Her brain glowed with the song of dreams, and sweet sweat mingled with wet, clammy skin. She giggled.

_No. _Sarah pulled back on the tiger's tail and heard it yowl in her chest. No craziness. Rein it _in_. She clenched her lips together.

From the bag, she pulled out a half-empty box of depleted uranium slugs; the same kind used on Cromartie. With quick, well practiced movements, she fed shells into the Remington, one after the other. All six of them. Then -- _ka-chunk._

She curled up against the wall and pulled her knees to her chest, holding the shotgun across her shins. The barrel of the gun felt cold on her wet skin, and the oiled metal crinkled as it ran over the fine stubble of her legs; she hadn't shaved in a while. As she rocked back and forth, the rough carpet tickled her neither regions.

Kyle was probably outside somewhere. Should she risk it? He was _fast. _Faster than she'd ever seen Cameron move. She'd have to surprise him. She _was_ naked . . . That might buy her a couple seconds. One head shot. Or two. That'd do it. Sarah licked her lips and tasted piss.

No, too risky. Best wait_. _Blow them _both_ away as they come through the door. Sarah teeth shook in her mouth, as if they were somehow vibrating in her gums. She'd splatter -- _shatter --_ Kyle's head. There'd be brains, computer chips, -- _metal _flying every which way.

Then it'd be Cameron's turn. Sarah started to giggle again, and it felt like little feathers swimming in her esophagus. She imagined one slug after another, blasting into her coltan skull. In the end it'd just be a mess of scrap and skin, her chip little plastic flakes scattered on the blood stained carpet.

And John would wail over her corpse, sobbing, picking up pieces of her head . . .

Silence. Sarah's giggling cut itself off in an instant. Her lips twitched into a frown. _"He'll _hate _you," _said the boy's voice, and suddenly her throat and chest burned anew. It was true; John _loved _Cameron -- he had _pulled a gun on her _to save his metal love.

He'd _never_ understand. He wasn't a believer. Not in the dreams . . .

What could she say to him? _"I'm sorry, John, but Mommy had to kill your robot . . . "_

He'd never talk to her again.

And the cancer . . .

She'd die _alone._

Tears sprang from her eyes, and she buried her face in her hands_ . . ._ No. Stop. Not helping. Focus. Sarah yanked on the tail and forced the tears away. No craziness. Think. Sarah rubbed her temples, trying to warm her brain.

Then it hit; the solution was childishly obvious. The fact that she hadn't thought of it earlier was simply _embarrassing. _

Frame Jesse.

Jesse was _already_ on the hunt for Cameron -- almost like an secret ally, really. But she'd be the perfect patsy. Make John think _Jesse _killed Cameron and Kyle . . . and then Sarah would be there to comfort John. _"But he'll kill himself," _warned the voice. No he wouldn't. Not her baby. It'd be just like before. Just her and John. Fresh start. It could all be put behind them. They didn't need anyone else; they could investigate the warehouse and take down Zeria Corp _together. _Just the two of them.

Outside, she heard a vehicle pull up in front of the room. Voices. Kyle's. Cameron's.

Sarah leaned the shotgun against the wall and scampered from the corner and onto the bed, covering her nakedness with the sheets. Her heart pounded in her chest, and for a terrifying moment, she feared they would _know _her intents, _steal them from her eyes. _But no. They knew nothing. She would wait until the time was right -- then strike. Like a tiger.

It'd be for his own good.

_I'm sorry, John._

More murmuring voices, and then the door opened. It was Kyle; his left hand hung out in front of his waist, and she saw a gun stuck into his jeans. He looked at her and narrowed his eyes.

She twisted the sheets around her, and looked away. Not yet.

* * *

". . . you're _sure _they didn't follow you?" his mother asked, her hands fidgeting with the bedsheets.

Cameron cocked her head. "If they followed us, they would already be here."

His mother frowned at that, and John wrinkled his nose, trying very hard not to look at her. Obviously, she had just taken a shower, but what had she bathed in, _cat urine_? Her odor, like rotten eggs and garlic (and . . . cigarettes? Menthol?), emanated from her body in invisible rays of stench. And was she _naked_ under those sheets? And was that _vomit _in her hair? And her _eyes_ . . . they glared red from recent tears, but he could see a frantic energy pushing behind them, as if a cosmic dam had burst in her brain, flooding her sockets with frenzied life. John felt his throat tighten, and he wished he knew what was wrong with her.

His mother shook her head and seemed to hiss. "_Six _federal agents?"

John's eyes drifted into contact with hers, and he saw her accusing glare staring him back; her blue eyes seemed to darken in the dim light. "She -- _we_ didn't have a choice," he explained. "It was an ambush . . . it happened so fast." His mother narrowed her eyes, and he felt an aching guilt swell inside him. He shot Cameron a brief glance, and she looked back, her face intentionally held blank; it was a good thing he'd told her to keep quiet about Kendo_. _No need to feed his mom's fire.

But _Kendo_ had only been an _hour _ago. Why wasn't he still angry at her? Forgiving her so readily seemed almost like a betrayal . . .

Kyle walked across the room and stared at a shotgun leaning against a wall. "It doesn't matter," he said, his voice strangely flat. "You were fugitives before, and you still are." He turned and gave his mother a face of stone. "Nothing's changed."

His mother scooted up against the headboard and scowled at him. "That's not the point."

"Water under the bridge," Kyle said with a dismissive shrug. He turned to Cameron. "Tomorrow, we need to find a place to repair you." He half-pointed to her bandaged ear. "Someplace to work metal."

Cameron gave a nod, and John wondered how they planned to work on _hyperalloy_.

Kyle then picked up a medical kit from the foot of the bed and waved a hand at her mangled torso. "Here, let me . . . "

For a moment, Cameron's eyes shot to John and looked him over, as if she were trying to decide something. "No," she said. "John will do it."

An awkward second passed. Kyle said nothing, but his previous confidence melted into hurt, bordering on subdued anger. Cameron just held out a hand and cocked her head, her expression mildly neutral. Reluctantly, like a little boy handing something over that wasn't his, Kyle gave her the kit and hung his head, frowning. He picked his laptop off the dresser and, without another word, stormed out the room, stopping to give John a poisonous glare before closing the door behind him.

Pouting?

John blew out a breath, the tension escaping like steam. _That was weird. _From his peripheral vision, he could feel his mother staring at him. Or _glaring._ No doubt _frowning_. With _narrowed eyes_. Great. Whatever.

But Kyle . . . Didn't Future Cam say she loved _both _of them? John had never really given it much thought, though he had to have known on some level, but now the idea bubbled in his brain, throbbing like a boil. Future Cameron and Kyle were _lovers. _That didn't really bother John -- he certainly had no right to judge who she had taken to her bed -- but of all the billions of people in the world, why his _dad. _Why_ Kyle_?

He already knew the answer, of course._ Because he looks like _me.

Cameron stepped next to John and gave him a concerned look. He offered a reassuring smile, but behind his eyes his mind chewed on a single word, whispering it over and over again as if it were a curse: _programmed._

She held up the plastic kit expectantly, slightly raising an eyebrow. He took it from her hand and glanced over at his mother.

His mom was . . . _smiling? _She pushed herself up and climbed out of bed, dragging the sheet with her and wrapping it around her body. John caught a glimpse of her backside and averted his eyes to the ceiling.

"Mom, what are you doing?" he asked.

His mother laughed -- a _friendly _laugh. "First I'm going to take a nice long shower," she said, stepping into the bathroom. "And then I'm going to eat a big plateful of pancakes." She turned to look at him from the door, and John saw that her smile was forced. _Tired. _As if it was held up by strings in her skull. "I haven't eaten in three days," she explained with a wry grin. "And I'm starved." She shut the door, but the splintered doorjamb caused it to sway open to a crack.

Somehow his mother's false cheerfulness made him worry. _"She's up to something"_ he thought, but cast the notion aside. She's just getting better, could even walk around now without limping too badly. A good sign. And maybe she'll even use soap this time.

Cameron stared at the bathroom door, waiting. When the water began to run, she turned back to John. "I wanted you to do it," she explained, almost apologetically, and began to pull off her ruined jacket.

John's heart raced in his chest with ludicrous expectation, and he nodded. He knew he should be touched -- and he was. She wanted him to tend her wounds, to remove her chip . . . she wanted _him _to be with _her._ But if her wants weren't her _own . . ._

She shrugged out of her jacket, dropping it to the floor, and began to peel off her tattered long-sleeved shirt. The purple cotton had been mostly stained black by blood. Without wearing the thick leather, the damage looked worse than before; the two shotgun body shots had really done a number on her. John thought of an animated corpse with bits of metal shoved under the flesh.

He placed the medical kit on the bed and popped it open. Bandages and stitches. She had a _cavern _in her stomach. What the hell was he supposed to _do?_ He frowned and picked up a suture, pointlessly examining it.

_"You don't love me for _myself," he thought and felt a frustrated anger rear up in his head. But then the anger froze to shame. _No, it's not her fault . . ._

And it didn't matter, did it? Love is love.

Cameron stepped up close to him, her face only inches away, and reached behind her back to unhook her bra. The bottom part of the left cup was only ripped cloth over bloody ground beef, with a metal chest-plate exposed below where ribs should be.

John swallowed and shifted his gaze back to her eyes, and he saw they stared intently into his. It was as if she were searching for something, and suddenly he feared she might find a secret revulsion that may have wormed its way to his face. No. He forced a smile and felt it turn real, and reached out a hand to brush through her hair. She deserved to be reassured; the last thing he wanted was for her to feel unloved.

She was all he had.

_But an hour ago she murdered a man. _He shoved that thought away -- what's done it done -- and caressed his fingertips along the naked coltan of her scalp, circling around her CPU port before gently running down the soft skin of her cheek. Her mouth opened slightly, and her eyes widened into something akin to happiness. Or awe.

She pulled away the bra, and John's eyes automatically looked down: a mutilated tragedy -- at least the left one, but it'll heal. He suddenly wondered what she looked like under all that skin. A spindly little endoskeleton. Her true self. Did _she _think of herself as that?

_She's not human, she's real, and she loves _me.

A tenuous warmth grew in his chest, and his smile switched to a lopsided grin. "Let's get you patched up."

* * *

Sarah's shower had improved her hygienic appearance. She no longer had vomit in her hair. Or urine on her face. Soap and shampoo are essential elements for proper bathing.

Walking from the bathroom to the front door, Sarah made a deliberate effort not to look back at either of them. Cameron's partial nudity, combined with John's close proximity, must make her uncomfortable. That, or she was disturbed by her extensive tissue damage.

Sarah opened the door and glanced back at John, smiling. "If you need me, I'll be at the waffle house." Her smile was false.

John briefly looked up from Cameron's midsection and nodded. "All right," he said.

Sarah then looked at Cameron; her smile vanished, and she closed the door behind her. The temperature outside was 14°C. Sarah's clothes were still wet. She could catch cold.

Cameron stood and watched as John knelt by her side, probing the shotgun blast in her abdomen with a pair of forceps. She felt a vague tingle as he clamped down on a pellet and extracted it, dropping the lead ball in a glass on the nightstand. It made a light metallic reverberation against the five .40 hollow points and six .33 pellets already pulled.

He reinserted the forceps, and she felt the pressure as it tapped against the right support rod of her waist.

"There's one two centimeters to the right," she said. "And four centimeters forward." A pellet had ricocheted past her torso column and laid three centimeters to the left behind her navel.

John pushed in deeper and shifted the forceps around, making a wet sucking sound as it slipped through her torn inner flesh. He moved his arm at an angle and pressed in further until his hand laid buried in her to the wrist. John was being physically intimate. Physical intimacy can be a sign of affection. Affection is love.

He clamped down on something hard. "Have I got it?" he asked. His brow furrowed, and his mouth made a twitch.

"I think so," Cameron said and frowned. John's previous enthusiasm had faded; he now appeared distressed. "You've already tended to my back," she said. "I can take it from here."

John looked up at her and gave a forced smiled. "No, it's all right. I don't mind." Cameron could tell that was a lie. He pulled the forceps from her body and dropped another pellet into the glass. "Though I don't think Kyle's too happy about this," he added.

That was correct. "No," Cameron agreed. "Kyle's not happy."

Wiping at his brow with his left hand, he stared at his right; it was stained red, and organic residue clung to his skin. He frowned and looked up at her, then turned his head away. "You and Kyle were . . . in a relationship, right?" His eyes drifted back to meet hers.

Relationship. John meant a sexual relationship. "No," she said. "Kyle and my _future self_ were in a relationship." Earlier she had watched all of her future self's video memories. At high speed. It had taken two hours and thirty-eight minutes.

"Yeah," he said, looking back down at her wound and frowning. "That's what I meant."

John was jealous. He should be reassured. "I'm not my future self." She rubbed a hand through his hair. "I love _you_, John. Not Kyle."

Through the fingers on his scalp, she could feel his body temperature drop and his heart rate increase. Something had upset John.

He continued to look into her wound and opened his mouth, hesitating before speaking. "Cam . . . " he started, and suddenly looked worried. "_Why_ do you love me?"

Why did she love him? If love is an overriding concern for another's well being, then Cameron had loved John since he reprogrammed her to protect him. But she shouldn't tell him this. He would believe her feelings to be inauthentic. He would stop loving her.

But were they inauthentic?

"I don't know," she lied, and cocked her head. "But I do." She paused. "Why do _you_ love me?"

John looked up at her. "I don't know," he said, his eyes narrowed as he smiled happily. "But I do." His smile grew, and he shrugged. "I guess it doesn't matter, does it?"

Cameron wasn't sure. "I don't know."

"Me neither." He made a light shrug and looked back to her wound. "Are their any more pellets in there?"

"Yes. Two," she said. "One on the left side of my right support rod." She marked with her finger a spot two inches from her navel. "And the other down here, above my pelvic area." She pointed.

John half smiled and breathed a silent laugh, and slid the forceps back into the hole in her flesh.

* * *

James shifted in his recliner and felt his ass stab him a warning. He reached down and fluffed the cushy pillow under his buttocks; It helped. Though in truth it didn't hurt_ that _much, and when it did, it didn't last. Over the last couple days he'd only taken a handful of those Vicodin.

He pulled the lever on the chair and slid back further. He probably should meet with Ms. Weaver tomorrow. And maybe talk some more with John Henry. Was he doing the right thing, there? How can you teach something right from wrong when you don't _really_ believe it has a soul? Or did he? To deny the possibility seemed presumptuous. Who's he to say where God could and couldn't stick a soul?

The plasma screen on the wall played an old episode of the Twilight Zone, but James' chair was turned the other way: _"*Corry, she's a robot.*" _said the first man. _"*She's a woman!*" _said the second.

But what felt like the more immediate concern was the warehouse . . . the silo doors . . . the men with guns. He'd seen it on the news; the place had been turned into a crater. Who did that? Ms. Weaver's "camouflage specialists?" Or John and his robot? Someone else? And _how?_ Assuming it was Weaver (and James _knew _it had to be) . . . it made him feel almost godlike with illusionary power -- not _his _power, but with just a few choice words to a very rich woman, he had caused the deaths of thirty-six employees. All now charred bones in a hole in the ground.

_*". . . now you're going to have to leave that robot behind"*_ said the first man. _*"She's not a robot! She's a woman! You don't understand. If you leave her behind that's murder!"* _said the second.

His words, her deeds . . .

But was that _right? _Thirty-six dead . . .

_*". . . Alicia! Alicia! . . . "* _cried the second man.

What _was _Desert Canyon Heat and Air? Government contractors? Fifth columnists from the future? Surely they didn't _know _what they were doing. Unless of course the robots were behind it, acting as their bosses? Skynet's minions? But certainly not _people. _He couldn't imagine a _human_ wanting Judgment Day to happen. Much less _cause _it -- _engineer_ it. What would be the motive?

_*"I don't have any choice, Corry. I have no choice at all"*_ said the first man.

_*"Corry?"* _asked a woman.

_*"No. No!"* _cried the second man.

A gunshot rings out from the television. _*"Corry . . . Corry . . . Corry . . . Corry . . ."* _The woman's voice grows electronic and fades away.

He'd ask Weaver about it tomorrow, though for some reason he suspected she'd deny her involvement. Oh well, if that _was_ a robot factory she blew up, then it needed to be done. But the collateral . . . being part of it made him feel like a terrorist. James sighed and stretched his arms. Life rarely gave straight answers.

A loud knock on the door. Like a hammering fist. "Open up," said a voice. "Federal agents."

James blew out a breath and pulled himself out of his chair, cringing at the sudden jolt in his ass. What _now? _Accused of another murder? Or something to do with the warehouse?

He ambled to the front door, trying not to limp. They pounded again.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he said.

He opened the door.

Agent Carlson.

And a gray haired man.

"What . . . ?" James started.

"Agent Ellison," said Agent Carlson. "FBI, Department of Homeland Security." he flashed his badge. "We need you to come with us, please."

* * *

It was 2:57 AM.

Cameron stood in the corner of the room, near the window, and stared out through the translucent curtains. She could see Kyle sitting cross-legged on the pavement just outside, smoking cigarettes and watching her future self's videos on the laptop. Currently, he played, _"July 12th, 2015." _Sexual intercourse is an effective means of increasing endorphin levels.

She heard behind her the rhythmic breathing of John and Sarah. John slept on two chairs pulled together, while Sarah laid in the bed, snoring. Her sheets were unsanitary. They should be washed.

Kyle flicked away a partially consumed cigarette, and pulled out another. Cameron made herself frown; his augments would spare him the detrimental effects of prolonged tobacco usage, but she still found their olfactory properties to be unsatisfactory.

He stared at the unlit cigarette for a moment, then flicked it out into the parking lot as well. She cocked her head and watched as he then took out the entire pack from his coat pocket and flung it away too. Kyle must not like the smell either.

Snapping shut the laptop, he leaned it against the brick wall and stood stood up, turning to face her through the glass and drawn curtains. He appeared sad. "We need to talk," he said in a whisper only she could have heard.

Cameron gave a curt nod and pulled on her wool beanie to cover her damaged scalp. She stepped out the door and turned to face him. "So talk."

Kyle patted at the pocket where his cigarettes had been, then frowned and looked at her. "You killed Kendo, didn't you?"

Had John told him? Probably not. "Yes," she said.

He nodded slowly. "And John was angry." It wasn't a question.

"Yes," she said. "I should have showed empathy. The Golden Rule."

Kyle's mouth nearly smiled, and he turned his head and gave her a shrewd look. "But you don't _understand _that, do you?"

"Do to others as you --"

He held up his hand. "No. I mean you don't _feel _it. Not like he does."

Cameron paused for a moment. That was true. "John will teach me," she said finally.

Kyle took a step towards her and shook his head. "Empathy isn't something you can _teach, _Cameron." He gave her a sad look. "It's _human. _It has to be _felt. _And you'll never _get _it. Not really. _My _Cameron didn't."

Eric surfaced in her thoughts. She opened her mouth --

"You're going to bring up Professor Donnelly," Kyle said. He closed his eyes and nodded. "I know all about him. Good man. Very nice of you . . ." He opened his eyes, and looked almost agitated. ". . . but he was a _friend. _That's different. But what about _Africa?_ Would John approve of _that?_"

In Africa, her future self's attempts at population reduction had severely limited Skynet's supply of human labor. Airborne bio-agents had eliminated one hundred and sixty million potential workers. An effective strategy. But John would not approve. The Golden Rule had not been applied. Cameron said nothing.

Kyle continued. "You're _beyond _empathy. _Better._ You can _pretend _to feel it, but . . ." His breath came out as a sighed, and he took another step forward. "John may love you now . . ." He shook his head. " . . . but it won't last. One day he'll realize _what_ you are."

An irritated sensation emerged. Cameron said nothing.

He looked down at her feet. "Don't you think John deserves _human _companionship?" he asked. "Someone who _feels_ the same things he feels? Someone who _really _loves him?" Kyle shook his head again; his voice came out slow and deliberate. "How would John react if he knew your feelings for him were only _programmed?_ That you can kill _millions_ and feel _nothing?_" He looked up. "The truth would _crush _him. He'd only see you a _thing_. He'd _despise _you." He casually pointed at finger at her. "_You _would have _hurt_ him."

The irritated sensation increased in intensity, and her left hand twitched. What Kyle said was true. John would reject her. He would feel deceived. He could become mentally unstable . . .

"_He_ may never accept you." he said. "But you don't have to be alone." Kyle took another step, and stood only a few inches away. She could detect the scent of cigarettes on his breath. Menthol. Slowly, he reached out a hand and stroked the left side of her face. "I came _across time_ for you, Cameron. I love you. I always will." His head slowly shook back and forth, and his voice grew soft. "And I don't want to see you get hurt. Ever." He smiled, and she saw water form in his eyes. "When I was young," he said. "You took care of me . . . and now's my chance to take care of you." His thumb rubbed the mole over her eyebrow, and she felt the warmth of his hand.

The irritation shifted in texture, and a new realization emerged. Kyle's arguments were spurious. They were only part of a ploy to initiate a sexual relationship. He must be lying. The sensation grew worse. Her left hand clenched into a fist she couldn't release.

"I'm not your Cameron," she said, narrowing her eyes. "And I don't love you."

Kyle only appeared hurt for a moment, then dropped his hand and stepped away from her. His expression went blank. "Just think about what I've said." He turned around and walked to the SUV.

Cameron watched as he entered the vehicle and started the engine. As he backed out of the space, he gave her one brief, tired look through the tinted windows, and drove away.

After a minute, she regained control over the servos in her left hand. She looked at it and flexed the fingers; the unintentional movements had begun.

Would Kyle harm John? Probably not. His mental conditioning would make that unlikely.

Unlikely.

She still should watch him closely.

She picked up the abandoned laptop and stepped back inside. Carefully, she walked over to where John slept. His head laid on its side, and his mouth hung slightly open. She listened to the steady sound of his breathing. It was regular.

Would Kyle attempt to turn John against her? She decided he would. John would no longer love her. He would hate her and wish she had burned. He could reattempt his suicide.

The irritant magnified and became highly unsatisfying.

Perhaps she should dispose of Kyle? Even with his augments, it wouldn't be difficult; his conditioning included an inhibition against directly harming her. She could snap Kyle's neck, and destroy the body.

John shifted slightly in his chair and made an indistinct noise with his mouth.

And it wouldn't be wrong if John didn't know about it.

But not yet. She needed Kyle to repair her damaged skull, first. Then he could be removed.

Cameron continued to watch John sleep. She reached out and gently ran her fingers through his hair.

No. Kyle was useful. If he stayed true to his conditioning, he would be a valuable asset. John would be safer from threats.

And if Kyle were to vanish, John may grieve. Biological relations are important to humans.

Behind closed lids, John's eyes began to jerk back and forth. Cameron cocked her head. R.E.M. Rapid eye movements. Dreams are fictive events experienced during sleep. She knelt down and stared into his closed eyes, and wondered what it must be like.

But she would never know. Humans dream. Machines do not.

Perhaps Kyle was not lying. He may have had an ulterior motive when he formulated his arguments, but that did not negate their validity.

Perhaps she would never understand empathy. The Golden Rule. And perhaps her feelings for John were not genuine. Perhaps a programmed concern for another's well being isn't real love.

John should be with another human. He would be happier. Humans are authentic. Real.

Cameron was not.

She could cause him psychological harm.

His eyes dropped out of the R.E.M. cycle and gradually grew still. Slowly, Cameron leaned towards his face and tilted her head. John's lips tasted of mouthwash, and as her tongue slid against his teeth she detected trace amounts of mint-flavored toothpaste. His breath felt hot, and smelled of ripe papayas.

He grunted and began to stir, moving his head to the other side. Cameron stood up quickly and walked back to the window to resume her watch. John agitates easily.

Kissing is a form of physical intimacy. Physical intimacy is a sign of love.

Cameron loved John.

Even if it wasn't real.

* * *

_A/N: Quotes taken from _Twilight Zone _episode, "The Lonely."_


	16. Tonight is the Night

In the Hands of an Angry Machine

Chapter Sixteen: Tonight is the Night

_A/N: I'd like to thank Metroid 13 for beta-reading this chapter. His advice has proven invaluable.

* * *

_

James shifted in his cold metal seat and forced down a grimace. His right buttock begged for him to stand up.

In the dim blue light of the interrogation cell, Agent Carlson paced behind James' chair, slowly making his circuit around the small stainless steel table in the center of the room. Carlson rubbed his chin in mock thoughtfulness, then cleared his throat to speak. "Forgive me if I'm mistaken," he said. "But didn't I call you about a supposed . . . " He turned to face James. ". . . _John Connor _sighting? In Mexico?" His smile seemed surprisingly boyish for a man in his late forties.

Sitting across at the other end of the table, Agent Baldwin clenched his granite-like jaw and grinned icily at James. His blue gray eyes betrayed dead amusement.

Ellison made a calculated shrug. "I believe you did."

Baldwin pursed his lips and pulled out a vanilla folder from beneath the table. "We have the phone record and transcript right here." He flipped the packet open to a page and pressed his finger down on what James was certain a random spot. "On December 2nd, at 2:07pm, Agent Carlson . . . " He motioned at the agent, who nodded politely. ". . . called to tell you that a young man matching John Connor's descript-- "

"Get to the point," James said, doing his best to mask his concern. When they first came for him, he had assumed it was something _routine. _After all, he _had _been involved with the Sarah Connor case. But now . . . _They're _on _to me. _He'd been leaving a _trail_ . . .

Carlton stepped up next to James and leaned forward on the table, his well manicured hands flat against the spotless surface. "The point is, Mr. Ellison, is that you and the Connors seem to follow each other around." He frowned. "And cause _trouble._" His breath smelled of Mentos over stale tobacco.

James chuckled. "What do you mean? _You're _the one who told me about it_._"

Baldwin scratched at his thinning gray hair and fingered through the pages of the folder. "Hmm . . . you arrive at the Santa Teresita Police Station, and let's see . . . five minutes later, the place gets shot to hell. Five cops dead . . ."

The accusation stung, and James's face burned with anger. "Hey, I had nothing to do with that."

"According to eyewitnesses," Baldwin continued, pulling out a paper from the folder. "This was the shooter." He held up a facial composite rendered in grayscale: the blank face of Cromartie.

Agent Ellison sighed and felt the beginnings of serious worry: legal claustrophobia. _They've done their homework._ He gave Baldwin a weary look. "George Laszlo is _dead_."

Blowing out a breath, Carlson wandered to the back of the cell. James heard him light a cigarette.

"Funny you should say that, Mr. Ellison," Baldwin said, casually flipping to another page. "The coroner report here states that Mr. Laszlo had been dead for_ three weeks _when he was . . . " The corner of his mouth twisted upwards. ". . . 'killed' in your raid." The crooked smile vanished. "How do you account for that?"

Behind James, Carlson snickered. "Maybe he was a zombie?" the agent said.

The worry cramped in on itself, and James' ass ached. "Obviously someone made a mis--"

"_Was _Mr. Laszlo a zombie?" Baldwin asked. His eyes went glassy, unreadable.

A two second pause, and James felt himself unravel. _What the . . . ? _"No, he . . . I was th--"

"If he wasn't a_ zombie,_" Carlson added."Maybe he was . . . _something else?_" James heart skipped a beat, and he turned in his seat to look back at him. Carlson blew out smoke and winked_._

Cold. It all felt like one of those optical illusions. The kind that can look like either one thing or another. James had only been seeing the Old Hag, when he _should _have been seeing the Young Lady. These guys weren't just federal busybodies, asking reasonable but mundane questions. They were _in the know -- _they _knew. _And _they_ knew_ he_ knew_. _Ellison's heart beat into a hammering, perilously close to panic. Step carefully.

Baldwin shook his head and made an exaggerated frown. "Those 'zombies' sure are bothersome. Earlier this evening one of them killed _six _federal agents." He tapped a finger against his forehead. "One bullet each, right in the brain."

"Must have been Anne Oakley," Carlson said.

What the hell were they talking about? He knew they were _fishing, _though_; _that much was obvious. They wanted to see how much he knew; wanted him to break down and confess, _"All right, I know about the robots. . . "_

But should he _bite?_ Risky. They could be potential allies, or they could in league with Skynet. Or maybe that warehouse had been a government facility? A pissed off Uncle Sam? James' shoulders began to slump, and his chest deflated like a sagging balloon. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life in Guantanamo. Would Ms. Weaver intervene?

His butt itched, so he shifted in his seat.

Baldwin raised an eyebrow. "Need to use the restroom, Mr. Ellison?"

Ellison ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth. Play stupid. Ignorance is strength. He smiled. "Look, someone's got their wires crossed because I don't know what you guys are talking about." He raised up his hands defensively, and gave a nervous shrug. "What exactly do you want?"

Baldwin blinked. "Tell us about Catherine Weaver."

* * *

_Fuck. Prison. _

Strapped to a hospital gurney, Derek blearily watched the ceiling lights pass overhead as the two paramedics wheeled him down the hall. Beside them, two police officers walked along, their hands resting on their firearms, ready to draw down on any rescue attempt.

Guess they weren't taking chances this time. But still . . . only two?

They wheeled him into an over-sized elevator, and someone pressed for the bottom floor. Derek felt the shift of downward momentum as the car began to sink.

One of the paramedic's eyes accidentally drifted into eye contact. Chubby little guy, with a face like a pie. "How's the pain?" he asked, then looked away.

Derek grinned sardonically. "I've had worse."

He had; the morphine made the pain distant, inconsequential, but he'd _never_ been this_ fucked up_ before: broken wrist and ankle, cracked ribs and sternum . . . and _torn ligaments_ -- the doctor had said he'd need surgeries on those before he could walk or use the hand again. Plus months of physical therapy. And seeing as he was a soon to be incarcerated _persona non grata, _he wasn't likely to get any of that treatment. Probably spend the rest of his life in a prison hospital ward.

Or maybe they'll dump him in the general population. Won't that be great? Like dropping a crippled wolf in a pit full of hyenas. _"Should have killed me," _he thought, and wondered whether he meant his nephew, his brother, or even the machine.

Maybe he could do the job himself?

Derek glanced at one of the cops. Burly Irish-looking fella, with reddened skin matted with freckles. The cop sighed and rubbed at his paunch, making a determined effort not to match Derek's gaze. Obviously he wanted to be somewhere else.

_You and me both, buddy._

The elevator door opened, and they rolled him out. Derek closed his eyes and decided he really didn't care anymore. In three and a half years, all this would be ruins, and he'd be _damned _if he was going to be locked in a cage when that shit hits. Find a piece of glass. Elbow to wrist. Radial artery. Two minutes, if done right.

Probably wouldn't work, though. In the future, he never knew anyone who succeeded that way; the blood usually clots before you die. It's hard to cut deep enough. A plasma bolt to the head, on the other hand . . .

They wheeled him down another hall, through a swinging double door, and down yet another hall. He opened his eyes and continued to watch the scrolling lights.

The other cop spoke. "Your friends going try to spring you again?" He was a tall thin black guy. Young. Early twenties. He gave Derek a look of forced contempt, but there laid a rookie nervousness behind the eyes.

"Not this time," Derek said and shut his eyes again. Jesse probably thought he was dead, and . . . well, that was about it, wasn't it?

His plastered, propped-up wrist began to itch, like little ants crawling under the cast -- _bugging _him.

He listened as the gurney rolled down smooth tile, then passed through the soft hiss of sliding automatic doors. Room temperature and the scent of antiseptic were replaced by a cool chill and the brisk smell of a freshly mowed lawn. Outside. They turned the cart around and stopped.

"All right," said the other paramedic, a rather butch looking woman with badly bleached blond hair. "Let's get this scumbag inside."

Derek grinned to himself. _Scumbag?_

They rolled him up a ramp, head first, and he listened as they locked his stretcher into place. He peeked open an eye. Cramped little ambulance. The two cops and paramedics had climbed in, and one of them closed the back doors; not nearly enough room for five -- he tilted his head up and saw the back of a woman's head in the driver's seat -- _six _people. The two cops sat uncomfortably down on a little pull-out side cushion, while the paramedics stood over him, bent slightly at the waist. Pie Face bumped his head against a hanging defibrillator.

"Okay, we're ready," said the burly cop.

The ambulance started, and Derek felt it move, then turn out onto a street. The butch woman scowled down at him; the dark roots of her platinum hair made her look trashy.

Was this really their idea of guarding him? Taking no chances? Last time he had been in a locked down prison van. He would have assumed this time would be the same, except with guards armed with shotguns. Cramming a couple cops in a tiny ambulance seemed . . . lazy.

The black cop must have read his mind. "This is bullshit," he said. "What if his friends come get him again?" Derek heard the man's feet shift under the gurney, kicking against the metal supports. "I can't even _move_ in all this shit. It's like a fucking clown car."

"Tell me about it," said the burly policeman. "They told me we'd get an armored van and an escort." He shrugged his meaty shoulders. "But then some higher up must've changed his mind." He sighed and gave a wry grin beneath a bushy mustache. "It's just us."

"Shit," said the black cop, then looked out the back window.

The ambulance turned a corner, and Derek rocked slightly in his stretcher, back and forth. He yawned and popped his neck. How long was this ride going to take? The ants on his wrist began to bite . . .

Pie Face squatted down to Derek's level and smiled, staring right into his face. His big ears and curly brown hair made him look like a human teddy bear. Or a cherub. "So . . . " he started, his voice awkwardly friendly. ". . . how did . . . uh . . . who did this to you?"

_A robot and my brother. Fuck you. _He didn't say that, though. Instead he just ignored him.

The ambulance turned left, and Derek rocked to the right.

"Stop chatting with the riff-raff," said the butch woman, ubiquitous scorn in her voice.

_Riff-raff?_

Pie Face sighed and stood back up.

Another turn.

And another. Derek began to feel car sick.

But then the vehicle began to accelerate, faster than what seemed reasonable.

The burly cop looked out the window and climbed half out of his seat. "Hey, this isn't the right --"

The brakes slammed down, and the ambulance lurched to a tire squealing stop. All those around Derek stumbled and tripped, and his gurney jerked forward; if it weren't for the straps, he might have slid right off.

. . . and at that exact moment he heard the 'click' -- tiny and metallic, the old familiar sound of a pin pulled from a grenade.

Fuck.

Jesse's calm voice came from the front seat: "Close your eyes, Derek."

By reflex, he did, clenching the lids tight as he could. He heard the sound of an object hitting the floor of the vehicle and rolling.

"Fuck! It's a grena--" said the burly cop.

Pie Face made a girlish scream.

Frenzied footsteps. Someone bumped into his stretcher.

Light. Sound.

Even through his closed lids, the white bright was blinding, like phosphorus needles shoved into his eye sockets. The cold, high pitched ringing blared in his ears, drowning out the rest of the world with a piercing symphony of:_ eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee . . . ._

Panicked animal instincts forced him to flex against the straps of his gurney, and he screamed, his heart vibrating with trapped terror. But then he took a deep breath, and his brain kicked in.

The faint smell of smoke. Corrosive. Like burning metal.

Magnesium?

A flashbang?

God bless you, Jesse.

The light only lasted an instant, so Derek re-opened his eyes, his vision still marred by purple and red afterimages. He still heard the terrible ringing, however; it muted out all other sounds.

Jesse's arms moved into his vision above him, and he saw in her hands a .45 automatic.

Around him, the cops and paramedics staggered around, flailing their arms, their mouths moving wordlessly. The black cop's hands reached for the back double doors, scrabbling blindly at the release lever.

A silent flash of fire shot from the Jesse's .45, and the back of the black cop's head sprayed a mist of red. His body slumped forward against the doors, and they fell open, dumping his body to the ground outside.

The burly cop had already pulled out his Glock, but he tripped over something and fell forward on top of Derek. A meaty paw pressed down on Derek's bandaged ankle, and he screamed at the fiery pressure, hearing nothing but the perpetual ringing.

Jesse's gun flashed twice more, and a red burst spurted from Burly's head, right behind his ear. He hit his forehead on the frame of the stretcher before collapsing on the floor.

Something wet and coppery landed in Derek's mouth. He spat, and his stomach rippled.

Jesse took a couple steps forward and Derek saw her face. Her eyes were entirely hidden behind black sun-goggles, and he saw a rubber earplug sticking from in her left ear. She grinned, her mouth hanging open with with what may have been heavy breathing. Or laughter.

A shaggy mop of peroxide blond pulled itself up from the ground, barely coming over the edge of Derek's gurney. Jesse put her gun against it and pulled the trigger. A red geyser shot up, staining Jesse's paramedic uniform and Derek's hospital gown. He heard the shot this time, but dampened, as if the round were fired underwater.

Then it was just Pie Face. He had frozen like a scared animal, pushing himself against the edge of the cabin, his eyes closed and his hands covering his ears. Pretty sad, since the open doors were only a couple feet to his left. Could have just hopped out and ran like hell, blind or not. A shame, really.

Jesse pointed the gun at him. She didn't hesitate. Derek heard the muffled shot, like a _"wumff"_, and cherry filling popped from Pie Face's cheek, right under his eye. He clutched his head in silent screaming and went down, stumbling out of the ambulance as he fell.

Derek had tried to say something; maybe he didn't. He couldn't hear himself, anyway. Maybe he had tried to say, _"Don't do it, Jesse," _or _"That's enough," _or whatever. It wouldn't have made any difference. You get caught up in these sorts of things. Get a carried away sometimes. Derek might have killed him too. Probably not.

Sucks to be them. But that's life.

Fish in a barrel. Deaf and blind.

Jesse pulled up her goggles and turned to look at Derek, and though her voice was only an indistinct drumming sound in a sea of bells, he got the gist of her words when she bent down and kissed him sloppily on the mouth, her tongue wrestling with his own.

His heart continued to beat excitedly against his ribs, but not from fear.

The post-combat after-burn sent pain and aches shooting through his body.

Derek didn't mind.

* * *

Sarah awoke to the white hum of the hotel air conditioning; beyond that, further in the background, she could hear the lethargic cascade of the running shower head. She did not open her eyes, but ran cold hands across dry sheets. She felt no sweat coat her skin, no pounding from her skull.

And her world refused to spin.

_It's gone._

Whatever malady that had plagued her had passed, and she was well.

_But what's left behind . . . _

A dull dread erupted within, filling her with nervous ice. The task before her would have been far easier if the madness (_was _it madness?) had not subsided. She felt as though she had sworn an oath while drunk, and now the past weight of that inebriated resolve _bound _her to its completion.

But no. No hesitation. It _needed_ to be done.

Calm. Think.

The dread dimmed, swimming to the back of her brain, and she opened her eyes. Morning. The lights were off, but the early sun streamed through the curtained window.

Where was . . . ?

Using her arms, she propped herself against the headboard and --

The Tin Miss.

Cameron stood in the corner of the room with an open Gideon Bible in her hands. She stared down into its pages, reading it with an intensity that bordered on ludicrous.

"What are you doing?" Sarah asked.

Cameron flipped a page. "I'm reading the Bible."

"Why?" Sarah asked. "Haven't you read that already?" She felt an odd discomfort.

Cameron didn't look up as she spoke. "I've read the New International Version and the Basic English Version." She flipped another page. "This is the King James Version."

Sarah didn't say anything. From the bathroom came the sound of a metallic squeal as the shower head turned off.

Cameron closed the book and looked at her. "You were a good Samaritan. To the turtle."

The discomfort turned into an indistinct ache. "A . . . good Samaritan," she repeated numbly. The turtle. Cameron _noticed _that_. _And the dreams . . .

She heard someone climb out of the tub, followed by the ruffling of clothes.

"Yes," Cameron said. "While traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho, a man was --"

"I know the story." Sarah said, then paused. Give her a chance. "But what would you do? If _you_ were the Samaritan?"

Cameron cocked her head and seemed to hesitate. "I don't know."

_"Wrong answer," _Sarah thought and glared at Cameron's exposed CPU port. Just _one_ depleted uranium slug . . . "You _don't know?_"

"It's hard to say."

The bathroom door pushed open and a clothed but still-wet John came walking out, rubbing a rather worn towel through his hair. He glanced at the Bible in Cameron's hand and raised an eyebrow. "What's going on?"

Sarah gave a wry grin. "Cameron's reading the Bible."

Her son breathed a short laugh. "What? Again?"

"It's the King James Version," Cameron explained. Her eyes darted over to Sarah for a fraction of an instant, then turned back to John. "John, over the last three days you've lost four percent of your body weight." She angled her head downward, as if making a point. "You need to eat."

He nodded. "Yeah, I guess I am pretty hungry. Pancakes?" He and Cameron started towards the door, but then he stopped himself and turned to Sarah, "Did you want us to bring back anything for you?"

_You _could_ invite_ _me to come along . . . _"No," Sarah said, forcing a smile. "I'm all right."

He half-grinned and nodded, and Cameron pulled a wool cap over her head and handed John his jacket. The two of them walked out the door, leaving Sarah alone.

Sarah narrowed her eyes and pulled her upper lip into a bitter sneer. _"Enjoy her while she lasts, John," _she thought, then scowled. She _was_ doing the right thing, right? She had no doubt about Kyle; he was a snake in the grass -- a _jealous_ snake. She'd seen seen the venomous look he gave her son last night. It was only a matter of time before he struck . . .

At the thought a surge of primal fear shuddered through her. Kyle, squeezing the life from John's neck -- as easy as wringing a chicken. She clutched at the sheets, clawing at them. _Kyle _would have to die.

But _Cameron?_

Her New Zealand nightmare wasn't inevitable, of course. There was the _other _future -- _Jesse's_ future -- the one where John . . . and Cameron.

But was that any better? Was it a reason to _kill_ her? She wasn't being merely _bigoted, _was she?

Sarah took a deep breath and forced away the swell of guilt in her chest. No. She was being perfectly rational. If Jesse and Riley had _gone back in time_ to prevent_ -- that_ -- from happening, they probably had a very good reason. John and Cameron's star-crossed love could lead to a scandal, or a revolt, maybe even a civil war . . .

But what if Judgment Day was _averted?_ Would it still have to be carried out? _Must _Cameron die?

Her palms rubbed against wet eyes, moistened by a sudden crop of fresh tears, and she felt her jaw tremble, clench, and tremble again as her face convulsed in unexpected sobs. No mercy. The risk was too great. It _had_ to be done. Otherwise the very freedom of the world would depend upon the peculiarly obsessive puppy love of a machine intelligence. If something were to _happen_ to John (a croak escaped her lips), or even if they were to _break up --_ once again she -- _it --_ would be unleashed upon humanity.

Only John's sidelong glances and awkward friendship kept the devil at bay.

But it wouldn't _stay _so chaste, would it? No. Their love would grow like a cancer. And she'd corrupt him_ -- _beguile him, compel him to thrust away his innocence into her cold, metal womb, burying his seed into a barren machine.

Sarah shivered and cried harder, running her shaking hands through ragged hair.

Deep down, that was _all_ it was about, was it? Nothing to do with New Zealand; nothing to do with the Resistance -- all _excuses._ Climb over the wall of reason, pull aside the veil of self-righteousness, and there in the center the lay the _core_: the primal hate, an instinctive revulsion, like an angry shameful troll hiding in the dark.

But a troll -- legitimized by _truth._

_"Truth," _Sarah thought, as she forced herself out of bed and crawled slowly to Kyle's backpack. The truth served as a panacea for her soul, for now she could act with clear conscience. She listened as her outer sobs shed away into inner giggles of joy, like a butterfly escaping a cocoon. Accept it. Embrace it. It's not madness if you _believe. _Faith was what made humans _different. _

That, and _souls . . . _

That terrible loving power again flowed through her veins. The energy of dreams. A gift from the heavens.

_Mommy loves you, John!_

She opened the bag and pulled out the GPS tracker, and the giggles rose to a brief laugh. Angles roared in her brain. Giddiness. Magic. She _needed _this strength. Needed it only for a little while longer.

Only until tonight.

"Tonight is the night," she whispered to herself and switched on the tracker, testing it. Tonight, John and Kyle would take Cameron someplace, remove her chip, fix it -- _program _it, repair her skull. Whatever.

And Cameron would be asleep, trapped in limbo inside her little plastic homunculus. Vulnerable. A cigarette lighter could kill her.

Or a bullet.

_"One cannot deny the will of God," _said the boy's voice.

Sarah's giggling subsided, but she kept her smile and slipped the GPS tracker into her pocket.

Tonight the tin bitch would die.

* * *

The Good Samaritan's actions were not effective. By stopping to aid the robbery victim, he suffered a both a loss in time and financial capital. Following the Golden Rule offers no tangible benefit. Empathy is inefficient. Humans are irrational.

Cameron followed John out of the room, then matched pace with him to stay by his side.

Sarah had asked her what she would have done if she were in the Samaritan's position. Cameron did not know, so she ran a simulation in which Eric filled the role of the victim. Would she offer him assistance?

Yes, she decided. Provided that doing so did not jeopardize John's safety.

Eric possessed . . . value.

But what if the victim was Kendo?

Kendo possessed no value.

She would offer him no assistance.

Unless John was watching.

"Hey," John said, pointing at a mobile food stand across the street. "How about a hot dog, instead?"

Cameron's organic covering would heal faster if she ingested eggs and vegetables, but she had never tasted a hot dog before. "Yes," she agreed. "A hot dog."

John attempted to cross the street without awaiting the proper traffic signal. Cameron held him back with a hand against his chest.

He looked down at her. "You know," he said, smiling. "Sometimes you're _way_ too cautious." He chuckled.

In front of them, a SUV and three sedans drove by, each traveling in excess of forty miles per hour.

She gave him an annoyed stare. "Jaywalking is dangerous. And illegal."

He blew out a breath and shook his head. "Fine, have it your own way."

Cameron had it her own way. Sixteen seconds later, the red hand of the traffic light switched to the blue stick-figure of a man. They walked across the street.

Soon Kyle would inform John about the inauthentic nature of her feelings. Then John would renounce his love for her. He would become angry at the deception. He would verbally condemn her. She should tell him before Kyle does; perhaps then his response will be less negative. Confession is good for the soul.

Cameron didn't have one.

At the concession stand, John ordered a Dr. Pepper and a foot long hot dog with mayonnaise, mustard, onions, meat sauce, and jalapeños. Cameron ordered one with a vegetarian sausage. With relish. And ketchup. And a can of orange soda.

"Let's sit over there," John said, pointing at a bench by the side of a convenience store. As they walked over, he reached out to take her hand, but she pulled it away. The servo malfunctions had begun last night; she could damage his hand.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"We need to talk," she said and looked over at him. She saw worry in his eyes. "You should sit down," she added.

"Alright," he said tentatively, and sat down on the bench.

She sat down by his side and stared at her unopened orange soda. It felt cold in her hand. "I don't really love you," she said. "I only care about you because of my programming." She looked over at him and saw the expression on his face; he appeared psychologically distressed. An unsatisfactory sensation emerged.

His head looked away, and his mouth opened. Then slowly he turned back towards her, his breath growing heavy. "What . . . ?" he said. "What . . . do you mean?"

"Your future self programmed me to protect him." She paused. "That includes you."

John's eyes began to water. "But . . . you said you have _feelings._" He touched his chest. "Inside."

That was correct. Probably. "Yes. I do."

"But aren't those . . . _emotions?_" His voice sounded desperate.

She cocked her head. "You said they were."

John looked down at the hot dog in his right hand and swallowed. She should have waited until he had finished eating. The discussion had ruined his appetite.

"Okay," he said, nodding his head. "When we crossed the street back there . . . " He frowned. " . . . How would you _feel _if I had been hit by a car?"

Cameron ran through a brief simulation. John would have either been seriously injured or killed. An irritated sensation. Inside. "Very bad," she decided.

He rubbed at his eyes and smiled, though she could tell he was still upset. "See?" he said. "You _do_ care."

"But it's only progr--"

"It doesn't matter," John said, raising his voice. "I don't _care_. If you _feel_ it, it's _real._"

Denial is a defense mechanism used by humans. "You should find companionship with a human female," she said. "I'm not a human female; I'm a machine."

The tears in John's eyes began to flow down his cheeks and he sniffed through his nose. "I _know _you're a machine . . . but . . . " He hesitated, then reached over and pulled up the right side of her wool beanie. He leaned forward, and Cameron felt the warm wetness of his lips as he kissed her on the top of her exposed CPU port. His tongue briefly scraped across her metal.

"I love you for _you,_" he said as he pulled away, and wrapped his arm across her back, pulling her close. He rubbed his face into her shoulder, and she heard him sniff. "I don't want anyone else."

Cameron felt a satisfactory sensation. John still valued her. For now. But was Kyle right? Would John eventually turn on her? Perhaps if he were properly conditioned . . .

John squeezed her tighter. "I . . . I don't have any friends," he said through a sob, and stared at the ground.

John should be comforted. Taking four seconds to cut the power to her right arm by 90%, she slid it around his back and rubbed his ribs. Hugs can release endorphins into the blood stream.

* * *

John pressed his lips against Cameron's cold coltan skull and kissed her; the tip of his tongue tasted a grimy metallic tang, like wet pennies -- the taste of Cameron's blood.

Her love -- so it _was _just programming, but then he _had_ said it didn't matter, though he knew it probably should. But _why? _He would never have a normal life; he had always known that. Shouldn't he snatch at every chance for happiness that came his way? Hoard and treasure them, like fireflies caught in a jar?

And Cameron_ existed_ for_ him;_ it wasn't _her _fault her feelings were . . . _forced._

"I love you for _you,_" he said, and decided that he meant it. With one arm he hugged her, and nuzzled his face into the hollow between her neck and shoulder. Her long hair intermingled with his own, waving over his lips and cheek, and he sniffed at it. "I don't want anyone else," he said in a near whisper. Tears and watery mucus ran from his eyes and nose, leaving wet spots on the fabric of her black t-shirt.

His foot long hot dog felt awkward and uncomfortably warm in his other hand.

Cameron said nothing, and John suddenly felt ashamed at his tears. Did she feel _embarrassed _for him? Or was she judging him? Sizing him up against his future self? Messiahs aren't supposed to cry.

He clutched at her tighter and felt the bandages of her bullet wounds. "I . . . I don't have any friends," he said through a voice cracked by sobs. He was all too aware at how pathetic it made him sound. _Why_ did he say it? _"Because I _am _pathetic," _he thought. Crying on a robot's shoulder? Really?

No. She was more than that, but . . .

Gradually, she wrapped an arm around him and gently rubbed her hand up and down his back. It tickled, and he felt waves of tension evaporate from his body.

"It's okay, John," she said. "Don't be sad. _I'm _your friend."

_Oh, God. _

That made him feel worse. A _robot_ friend? A robot _girlfriend?_ _Programmed_ to care? It sounded . . . _sad_. Like clinging to a sentient teddy bear -- a _killer _teddy bear. His weak sobs nearly turned to bitter laughter. But no. Crazy life. Happiness. Stash it in the bug jar.

And he _so_ didn't want to be alone. Please, no.

He blinked away the dull burn from his crying eyes. "I know," he said. "I'm your friend too. But . . . I . . . I never really _had_ friends." He swallowed a lump and sniffed. "When I was little, my mom . . . she'd yell at me if she saw me talking to other kids." He stopped, wondering if Cameron understood. Or even cared. But she gave him a light pat on the back, and he went on. "She'd slap me and scream about how I couldn't make friends. How robots would kill them, and it'd be _my fault_ . . . " He left out the part with the belt, and the hours spent locked in a dark closet . . .

"I know," Cameron said, stroking his hair. "You told me. In the future."

John closed his eyes and felt Cameron's small hand taking hold of his shoulder; her other pulled the hot dog from his grasp. Gently but firmly she laid him down and rested his head into her lap. He smiled and snuggled into the tight denim of her jeans; her thighs felt firm and warm against his cheek. Thin fingers brushed across his ear and danced down the line of his jaw, tickling him, and he sighed.

"Being John Connor can be lonely," she said. "But it doesn't have to be."

For a minute she continued to pet him as if he were a lap dog. And then she pulled her hands away, and he heard the metallic hiss of an opened aluminum can. He listened as she sipped, and then opened another.

"Here," she said.

John opened his eyes and took the Dr. Pepper held before him. He awkwardly poured some into his mouth, taking care not to spill any on her jeans. The carbonated fizz bubbled over his tongue. "Thanks," he said, and realized he was no longer crying. He took another sip.

Her fingers began to run through his hair. "I'll . . . " John noticed a brief hesitation. " . . . _always_ take care of you," she said.

John moved his feet from the ground and shifted his body to lay on his back. From her lap he looked up into her face, and she offered a tiny smile. He grinned back

But . . . _"Always?" _Was that a lie? What about . . . _after?_

In the slight chill of the air, John felt a frozen dread. He thought of Uncle Bob lowering into the molten steel, and of his final thumbs up, that last goodbye from a friend John hardly knew. He had cried for days afterwards, though his mother had said it was for the best.

No. Not _this time._

"Always?" he asked, his tone suspicious. "Even when Skynet's stopped? You won't . . . " He trailed off and wondered why he bothered to ask. She'd just lie.

Her smile waned, and she looked . . . thoughtful. "The technology to build Skynet is inevitable. My destruction won't stop that." The smile returned. "I won't ever leave you." She touched him on the tip of his nose. "Willingly."

"Promise?" he asked.

"Promise."

Warmth returned to his skin, and he suddenly felt very happy. He took another sip of his drink, and Cameron followed suit.

He watched as she pulled back the wrapping of her tofu-dog and took a bite. Ketchup smeared over the corner of her mouth, but she wiped it with her tongue, like a cat licking its chops. She then reached to the side and handed him his own. "You should eat your hot dog before it gets cold," she said.

He took it and bit into it and realized he was starving. Well, that's what throwing up all the time does to you_. _He took another bite, and a spot of mayo dropped from the tip of his dog and landed on the inner thigh of Cam's jeans. "Sorry," he said.

She dabbed at the stain with her finger and licked it. And smiled . . . knowingly? Did she just like mayo? Or was there _promise _in the gesture? John felt himself grow excited, and wondered if Cam noticed.

But after stopping Skynet, what _will _they do? John and his cyborg girlfriend? Just like a cheesy sitcom. Will they get married? Adopt kids? How will his mother react? John smiled at that. She probably wouldn't like it at first -- lots of "no soul" speeches, finger wagging, might even refuse to go to the wedding -- but she'd come around, eventually. Maybe she and Cam would become good friends. His mother and her cyborg daughter-in-law. One happy family.

It'll all work out in the end.

But what about Kyle?

John frowned.

* * *

Jesse rolled Derek's gurney down the ramp from the stolen van and wheeled him towards her warehouse.

"So, you killed Cameron?" Derek asked. "Future Cameron," he added.

Jesse beamed with pride. "Blew the top of her head clean off." She ran a finger into her temple and made an exploding sound with her mouth. "Should have seen the look on John's face" She laughed. "He was picking up pieces of its head. Crying like a baby."

Derek suddenly thought of Pie Face.

But John and Cameron . . . together for twenty years . . . then -- _zap -- _she's gone. Just like that. That must have been . . . For a second Derek caught himself feeling sorry for his nephew. But then his wrist throbbed, reminding him why he shouldn't

"What'd you do after that?," he asked.

"Got the bloody fuck out, that's what." She pushed him though a open garage door, and in the sudden dark her smile twisted. "They'd already rounded up Dietze and Hayes -- they _knew._" She shrugged. "It would have been only a matter of time."

"Dietze. Hayes." Derek tried to think, and realized how mushy his brain felt. That flashbang grenade had really given him a headache. "Weren't they stationed on the _Jimmy Carter_?"

Jesse's smile froze and twitched. "Yeah, they were."

She pushed him past several rows of metal cargo containers and through an old wooden door in the back, leading down a dark hallway. The walls were cracked and peeling, and the only light shone from a lone flickering bulb at a far end.

"So Cullie's brother sent you back?" he asked.

As she turned a corner, the gurney banged against a doorjamb, jarring Derek's injuries ("Sorry," she said), and she had to shake it for a moment the push it loose. "Yeah, Ollie said he'd make sure me and Riley were taken care of." She paused before explaining, "He was with Perry."

General Perry and his secret cabal. No surprise there; Perry was _ambitious_, and if John were thinking with his dick, he'd definitely make a move. But _Derek's _Perry didn't stoop to the cloak and dagger shit. He didn't have to. Derek's John kept him_ in line._

But . . ._"taken care of?"_

She wheeled him into what looked like a bedroom and flicked on a light. Dim and dirty. And for the fraction of a second Derek thought he saw a rat scurry into a dark corner, behind a dilapidated dresser. Just like the future. "So you had help," he said. "When you bubbled back?"

In the poor lighting, Jesse shucked off her blood stained paramedic uniform, revealing a sweaty black tank-top beneath. "Yeah," she said. "But from who knows who? Ollie told me to check some locker at a bus station. Had twenty grand and a list of contacts." She shrugged. "Whoever's behind it must be backing Perry." She pulled something out of her cargo pants and glanced at it. It looked like a cell phone, only too bulky.

Derek furrowed his brow. "If we scrap the tin, we don't _need _to _back_ Perry." A sudden doubt crept in his mind, but he stomped it down and drew his voice cold. "_John _began the Resistance. _John _leads it. _Period_."

Jesse looked down, and switched on a lamp; cobwebs clung to the shade. "'Began the Resistance,'" she repeated quietly, and Derek knew from the tightness of her mouth that she was about to have one of her PMS moments. "Derek," she said. "John was -- will be_ --_ _twenty_ on Judgment Day." Her eyes turned on him, and she smiled bitterly. "_Twenty_. How the _fuck _do you think he's going to -- _did -- _start the Resistance?" The smile grew teeth and gums, and she took a step towards his stretcher. "It's not just you and me, baby. The Resistance is _already here._ _Big _people. _High _places. The _government._" She took another step, and the lamp-light behind her shifted, shrouding her face in silhouette. "When the mushrooms sprout and metal walks the earth, do you think all these big scary G-men are going to take orders from a _teenage boy?_"

His ribs began to ache. "But he ran the Resistance in _your _future."

"Did he?" she said. "That's what we were _told_ . . ."

"But -- ?"

She threw up her hand and paced in a circle. "I don't know_, _Derek. I don't _know._ I'm just a corporal. But it doesn't make good sense, does it?"

Derek swallowed and said nothing. He'd thought the same thing; John's time hop had cost him nearly a decade of experience, and there was a world of difference between twenty and twenty-eight. And if the Resistance were _already here, _then who needs a John Connor? No time for plucky boy generals -- not if grizzled veterans were waiting on the sidelines. Were John's chess-pieces taking over the game? The idea had a cruel logic to it; John was simply a victim of his own success.

She barked an angry laugh and turned around to face him. "Personally, I think . . . " She deliberately cocked her head in impersonation. ". . . _Cameron _was running the show."

Derek opened his mouth, but then thought of Kyle -- _that _Kyle. The metal lover. His foot burned. "The . . . the Resistance wouldn't stand for that."

She's -- _it's . . . _" She trailed off and shook her head. "You don't _know_. You weren't _there._" She walked up to him and knelt down so that her face was level with his; from her breath he could tell she had been drinking earlier. Vodka. A hand ran over his forehead. "But don't worry, sweetie." she said. "_We_ can stop it. We can _end _her." She shook her head. "I'll make her pay for what she did to you."

Derek looked at down at his foot, still propped up in a cast. The future was always in flux, and if _"Kyle" _was any indication, the future had just gotten worse -- incomprehensible even. Was Kyle the end result of Jesse and Riley's machinations? Were they trying to dig themselves out of a hole?

Derek shook his head and decided to tell her, if only to deflect the craziness onto someone else.

"Yeah," he began. "It wasn't just Cameron who did this . . . "

* * *

Kyle held up his catcher's mitt in front of his face and ran backwards on stubby little legs. Derek tossed him the softball underhanded, and he watched as the white dot grew bigger and bigger as it curved towards him seeming to fly faster and faster with each moment.

Still, an easy catch.

But then he saw the bee.

It flew from the corner of his eye and darted about wildly, as if it were bouncing off invisible walls in the air. The almost machine-like buzzing sent a shiver down his spine, and he turned and ran, the mitt falling from his hand.

Behind him, the ball bounce off the grass and rolled between his feet.

But still, he ran; the bee could be chasing him. Right behind him. Ready to buzz right in his ear and sting his brain. Or his eyes. He shut them tight and continued to run, his legs hammering rhythmically against the ground. But running with your eyes closed isn't very smart; his foot tripped on a rock, and he went sprawling on his face. His nose ran against the grass and dirt, and he breathed in the smell of green.

"Kyle!" he heard his brother say, a million miles away.

But the bee. It'll get him. He covered his ears to keep it out. Bees _hated _him. And wasps. All evil little bugs. Tiny monsters with spears on their butts. He still had nightmares about that day, a few months back, when the bees attacked him and Derek. An angry army of vicious swarming dots. His brother had had to be taken to the hospital, and he had been covered with bumps for a week. They said the bee stings made him sick.

"Kyle!" his brother said again, closer this time, but Kyle wouldn't move. Maybe the bee will think he's dead. They don't sting dead people, do they?

Then he heard a voice -- a man, from right above him. "It's alright," the man said calmly. "That wasn't a bee. Only a June bug."

June bugs always did look like bees to Kyle. They flew and buzzed, who could tell the difference? But the man was a grown up, so he probably knew what he talking about. Kyle reluctantly opened his eyes and and looked. The man wore a dark green coat that went all the way down to his knees. Like a robe -- but still a coat. Kyle thought it looked cool.

"Kyle, come here!" his brother said from a few feet behind him.

Kyle pushed himself to his feet and stared at the man's face. He looked a little like his dad, except shorter and younger, and with the beginnings of a scruffy beard. The man casually tossed him the ball. Kyle caught it easily with one hand, as if the throw had been meant just for him.

"Thanks," Kyle said.

The man just smiled and nodded, then turned around and walked away. As Kyle watched, the man pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

That was a bad habit.

He felt his brother's hand rest on his shoulder. "Come on," he said. "Let's go. That guy gives me the creeps."

* * *

Jesse sat on a moldy old sofa and stared at the GPS monitor. It was a clunky little thing, sort of like a cell phone from the nineties. The bleeping dot remained still; other than crossing the street earlier, John hadn't moved a bit.

Earlier she had already traced down where the Connors were holed up. Some shitty hotel on Willowbrook. Bad part of town, but still not a place she could bang away with a M82. She'd have to wait.

Still, if they were going to work on her chip, they might also want to fix that dent that head-shot must have put in her skull. Jesse wasn't any metallurgist, but repairing hyperalloy wasn't like casting bullets. It was all fancy. A little thermite. A little liquid nitrogen. Metal working tools. Protective gear . . . not something they could do in a hotel room.

A garage, maybe? A shack somewhere?

She set the tracker aside. Patience. When John moved, _it _will follow.

On the other side of the room, she heard Derek snore softly in his bed. The morphine had done its work, but those _ligaments -- _without surgery and months of painful therapy, Derek was a cripple. Would probably always carry a limp. Maybe also a twitchy hand? He'd never be good as new, anyway.

Jesse ran her hand over her forehead and sighed in frustration. It felt as if she had wound up springs in the muscles of her arms. She wanted to _hit_ something. _Strike._ _Hurt_. Bad.

Cameron.

And Kyle.

Kyle. What the fuck?

The implications frightened her. Whatever metal loving future _he_ came from, it all led back to _herself_. She had brought back Riley; Riley had seduced (?) John; John found out the lies and tried to commit suicide . . . but was stopped by _Kyle._

Which meant . . . _this_ Kyle -- a man who would torture his own brother over a _machine_ -- came from a _Connorless_ future. Right? Maybe. Probably.

Jesse felt a bubble of excitement in her chest, and she smiled.

_I _created _that future. _

Monstrous, of course, but the sheer _accidental_ power behind such an act seemed . . . _godlike_. What was that famous quote? _"I am become death, the destroyer of worlds." _What was that from? The Bible? But that was _Jesse._ _She _was the finger that tapped that invisible line of dominoes. A smoldering match tossed in an ocean of kerosene and -- _whoosh --_ the future was _gone. _Annihilated by a stupid tunnel rat's idiotic confession. Replaced by something _new_. _Alien._

Bugger this. Jesse needed something to drink. She picked up the tracker and pulled herself up from the couch, walking across the hall to another room.

Not too late, of course. The future may be fucked, but it could always be _unfucked. _Cameron was the key. Take her down, and things play out as they should. At least Derek understood that. Especially now.

From a small fridge, she pulled out a bottle of Captain Morgan, and a two liter bottle of Coke. Captain and Coke. Better than warm vodka. She poured herself half and half. Three cubes of ice. Yum Yum.

Of course, Derek could see as well as she could the latent danger of Cameron. Like a pet rottweiler, except _cute. _Yes, cute. Even Jesse had to admit the thing was a woobie_. _She'd watched it long enough through her camera lens: cocking her head in confusion, staring intently at everyday things, probably asking John adorable little questions, like _"What's it like to dream?"_

It was like a kitten. What teenage boy wouldn't fall in love with that? And a friendless wonder like John? Inevitable. The Sarah Diaries were right; Cameron had _hijacked _his will. It probably even had the best of intentions too. If those things could even _have _intentions.

But kittens grow up, and sometimes they become tigers.

Jesse took a sip from her glass as she walked from the hallway and reentered the warehouse storage section. Cap 'n Coke. She loved the carbonated fizz over the vanilla goodness. Too bad they never had this in her time. Mostly had to make do with pruno. Nasty shit, that. Like distilled diarrhea.

She climbed down a short flight of stairs to her supply room and turned on the florescent lights. In the flickering: guns, guns, and more guns.

Sad that she couldn't tell Derek the whole story. He wouldn't understand. But then it wasn't like he thought he was the _only one_; those cross Pacific jaunts were _long. _Derek knew that, and it wasn't like he didn't fuck around too. He wasn't no monk. Not like his brother.

Jesse pulled down a suit of level IV body armor, then a Kevlar helmet. Got to be prepared. Everything should be on hand. She took another sip of her drink and glanced down at the tracker.

But then talking about it seemed _masochistic_. What's done is done, and _now_ it didn't even _happen_ anymore. _Never happened. _Only in her brain. Even _thinking _about it made it more real than it was. It had all the reality of a remembered dream. Why dredge up nightmares?

She pulled up her tank top and felt the angry ridges of the shrapnel scars on her side. No. It _did _happen. Or _had _happened.

Jesse never really loved him, not like she loved Derek. But still, he had been a good bloke, and even though she had gotten her revenge . . . there remained a . . . _deficient. _An imbalance in her universe. That one brief ecstatic blast of plasma through a coltan skull just _wasn't enough. _She was on the brink, like balancing on a razor wire, and all she needed that final push to send her into the sweet ecstasy of the abyss.

Release. Satisfaction. To relive it all once more.

And now that Riley had fucked everything up . . .

Popping open a wooden case, she pulled out a single 40mm grenade and whispered a name.

"Cullie."

* * *

_A/N: A "flashbang" is a non-lethal light and sound stun grenade. _


	17. Good Intentions

**Chapter Seventeen: Good Intentions**

_A/N: I'd like to thank Metroid13 for beta-reading this chapter._

_

* * *

_

**July 12, 2027**

**Osprey Oil Platform, ****Gulf of Alaska**

She idly touched a hand to her stomach. Two weeks late.

Nearly huddling together in the freezing air, Jesse, Dietze and Bird stepped carefully along the rust-eaten grating of the platform's outer walkway. A northern wind billowed through the night, spraying them in a constant arctic mist. Despite her heavy coat and wool leggings, Jesse's teeth chattered, and a shiver shook through her limbs. She sniffled, and felt like a cold, wet rat.

As they walked, their flashlight beams shifted in front of them in wide, sweeping arcs. The lights blurred and refracted from the ocean fog, limiting their vision to the inside of a cloudy bubble ending twenty paces ahead of them. From what little Jesse could make out, she marveled that the oil rig hadn't sunk to the ocean floor. It was all rotted scrap, rusted and worn, barely clung together through a dilapidated network of oxidized bolts and girders. Fifteen years of saltwater and neglect had taken its toll.

The wind picked up into a low whistle, and she heard the sad moan of stressed metal.

The three of them stopped for a moment, and Lieutenant Bird sniffed the air. He pointed down a causeway to their left. "This way," he said. Wordlessly, Jesse and Dietze followed.

Private Dietze nearly tripped over a ripped hole in the grating; Jesse stared at him. Could _he _be the . . . ? No. Dietze had pulled out. Shot on her belly. It had to be Derek. Or Cullie. Not that it mattered, in the end; it wasn't like she was going to keep the bloody thing, anyway.

"Up there," Bird said, pointing at large balcony jutting from a crumbled concrete refinery.

The message had explicitly stated no weapons, so they had left their plasma rifles with Goodnow and the others by the dock. But as they began to the climb a metal stairway, Jesse slid cold fingers across the back of her trousers and felt the cold weight of her .45 nestled to her back. _For all the good it'd do. _But at least she could herself keep from being captured. 230 grain hollow point. Roof of the mouth. Instant exit strategy.

Assuming this was an ambush, of course. But then, it was hard not to.

Their boots made hollow metallic taps against the gridded steps. Jesse looked over edge; they couldn't have gone more fifteen or twenty feet up, but the fog shrouded drop below seemed bottomless.

"So we're meeting _metal_?" Dietze asked, not for the first time. He swung his flashlight around in a frantic circle, briefly illuminating a rust pitted bulkhead by the side of the steps.

Bird sighed. "That's what Cullie said. Queeg told him."

Jesse's nose snorted through a clog of snot. "The metal's on _our _side, right?"

The Lieutenant turned to look at her. "They better be, Corporal," he said. The cold mist had extenuated his already thinning blond hair, making him appear nearly bald.

Dietze halted his progress up the steps. "_Scrubbed _metal, right?"

"What else?" Bird said.

The Private shone his light at Bird's chest. "Then why can't we take guns?"

"They said we couldn't," Bird said.

"'_They_?'" Dietze repeated and turned to look at balcony above them. "You mean _scrubbed_ metal told us _no_?"

"Look," the Lieutenant began, pushing up his little round glasses, "I don't like this anymore than-"

"Bloody hell, Dietze," Jesse interrupted. "You think Skynet arranged all this just to kill _three nobodies _on a floating pile of rust? Grow a scrot, Private." She shook her head in disgust and continued climbing the stairs. After a moment, she heard them follow.

It was amazing the amount of sheer insubordination Bird would put up with. Still, Dietze was right. This all felt like a trap. But then, it must be a real shitty one. The _Carter's_ launch floated below by the dock, and the nine marines left guarding it were all armed with plasma. If it looked like the shit was about to hit, they had orders from Cullie to submerge and get back to the _Carter_. Skynet had really nothing to gain.

But even still, something didn't sit right. Was Queeg still working for Skynet? Or was Skynet _making deals _with the Resistance? That idea turned her already cold skin to ice, and as she started to climb another flight of steps, Jesse suddenly _felt_ just how _small _she truly was. _"Three nobodies," _she thought. _"and I'mone of them!"_

Out there, beyond the mundane fog of her life, there played a global chess match between giants. Armies were sacrificed, pacts forged, unspoken rules followed . . . but Jesse remained a pawn in all that; she would never even _see_ the board, much less make the moves that shaped it. That privilege belonged only to the Kings: Skynet and Connor. And maybe that metal Witch-Queen, Cameron.

But Jesse. Just a pawn.

Her hand moved across her belly again. Maybe she _should_ keep it. Be a mommy. At least then she'd be the center of _someone's_ world. How did that saying go? _"Mother is the name for God . . ." _. . . something, something. But yeah. A good idea. Assuming she survived all this. She smiled.

Being in the lead, she made it first to the balcony. Metal grating gave way to splintered pavement, and to the right, past the balcony's railing, stood a great pock-marked wall of brown steel, rising at least twenty feet above her; it blocked most of the wind and rain.

Across the balcony, she saw them.

Well, _they _had brought guns.

Three stood together at the far end, about fifteen yards away. Endos. Two aimed plasma at her, but held their fire. Behind them sat a line of (she counted) seven . . . monoliths? _Coffins? _It was hard to tell in all the fog and darkness, but she swore she saw the reflection of glass on the front of each.

Next to the unarmed center endo sat a large metal crate, about knee high. The left-hand machines gradually lowered its weapon and scanned the area with a turn of its head. The right one followed suit.

At the far corner she noticed a fourth. Even through the fog she could see it was an infiltrator unit. It sat in a booth at the controls of what looked like a huge mechanical crane. The crane's rusty boom jutted out from the balcony at an odd angle, disappearing into the mist beyond; no doubt pre-war it functioned as a means to load and unload supplies. She squinted at the metal's skin. Unnatural. Waxy. Probably a rubber-head. Either that, or an 800 with skin-rot.

Jesse took a couple steps forward. She knew these couldn't be scrubs. No one in there right mind would let reprogrammed metal go around unsupervised. Not even Cameron was allowed that degree of autonomy. But still, she didn't feel nervous anymore. Just cold and irritable. After all, if they wanted her dead, she wouldn't still be standing now. And she wasn't important enough to capture. Made no sense. Fuck it.

But then, pawns weren't supposed to see the layout of the game. If they could, they might not move where they're told.

Behind her Dietze and Bird stepped up.

The private stopped next to her and blew out a breath. "Shit," he said to no one in particular and ran a hand through his wet buzz-cut.

The center endo - the unarmed one - glanced at one of its companions, then began to walk across the balcony towards them. Jesse frowned. It wasn't a 888. Not a 850. Nor a 800. Nor a skinless 600. It was . . . _bigger, _yet _sleeker _in design, with heavier armor plating, and an almost _muscular_ chassis. If it had skin, it'd be terrible at infiltration - not skeletal enough. But for straight combat . . . she swallowed a sudden surge of fear. _It's not here to kill me . . ._

"What is that?" she asked.

"A nine-hundred series," Bird said, nearly whispering. "_Anti-metal_ metal" He looked at her and smiled bitterly. "Even if we brought guns, it wouldn't do any good. Plasma's like _lead bullets_ to them."

The 900 stopped in the center of the pavement and stared at them expectantly. In its upturned palm it held a small gray metal case, as if it were offering a present.

"All right," Bird said. "Let's go."

Together the three of them walked out to meet the metal. Though the steel bulkhead to her right acted as a windbreaker, droplets of water still found their way to her skin. Some of it was sweat. No. Calm down. Nothing to fear. Though the very _idea _that there was nothing to fear seemed _unsettling _somehow, like a lobotimization of what it meant to be _human._ When you stop fearing monsters - when you meet to _make shady deals _on rusty old oil derricks _-_ doesn't that mean you're on the same footing? That you've become one of them?

Bird took the lead by a couple steps, and stopped four or five paces from the machine. The thing stood a good half a hand taller than the Lieutenant, and he was tall. Almost without thinking, Jesse and the others had lowered their flashlights to the machine's feet and legs, as if it would seem _rude _to shine them in its face. The absurdity and submissiveness of that gesture pounded in her head, but she restrained an impulse to raise her beam in defiance.

The wind shifted, and Jesse heard the vague metallic taps of rain against the thick coltan armor.

Bird took another step forward and nodded curtly.

After a brief flash of its red eyes, the 900 spoke, its jaw remaining still. "We will load the cargo onto your craft," it said. "You will take them back to your ship."

The machine's voice sounded roughly like that of a human male, but electronically distorted and tainted with a ghostly resonance. Jesse shivered and glanced at the Lieutenant. He slowly nodded to the machine. "All right," he said, almost meekly.

It held up the gray metal case. Close up, Jesse thought it looked like a shiny tackle box. "I will deliver this package to your captain," it said.

Bird hesitated. "I'll take it," he said and held out a hand.

There followed an awkward pause, as if the machine were annoyed at a breach of etiquette. Its red pupils shrunk down to glowing pinpricks. "No," it said, raising its voice imperceptibly. "I will deliver it."

The Lieutenant made a shrugging gesture and nodded, pushing up his glasses. "Okay. Sure."

Jesse tightened her jaw and swallowed a throat full of mucus. Brow beaten by metal. And letting that _thing_ on board?

And what was the "cargo?"

Well, why not ask? Not every day you get to chat with Skynet's metal.

"What do you have in those coffins?" she asked, pointing across the balcony. She received a nervous look from Bird_,_ and Deitze glanced at her from the corner of his eye, trying to mask fear from his face.

The 900's heavy, skull-like visage regarded her for a full two seconds, then it lowered its head in not-quite a nod. She heard the servos in its neck whir faintly over the low howl of the wind.

"Those are a gift," it said.

* * *

**December 17, 2007**

**Los Angeles**

In the vacant lot behind the hotel, Cameron sat on the pavement and leaned back against the brick wall. Next to her, John ate his third hotdog.

John was very different from General Connor. Her General Connor.

While John agitated easily, General Connor had possessed adequate stress management skills. John cried often; General Connor had maintained a stoic demeanor. John frequently behaved irrationally; General Connor had practiced sound judgment.

The differences were many, but he was still only sixteen years old. Humans mature with age.

Licking mustard off his lips, John finished his hotdog and began to pick his nose.

Usually.

But he could never be her General Connor. Her General Connor had not known her as an adolescent, and John would be eight years younger in 2027. She had changed the past.

But that had been the right thing to do. General Connor had been assassinated.

She had failed him. An irritated sensation.

She couldn't let anything happen to him. Not again.

John sat with his knees bent to his chest and stared out into the flat grass a few feet ahead of them. A squirrel ran through the recently mowed lawn and climbed a nearby tree. California Ground Squirrel. _Spermophilus beecheyi. _Or _Spermophilus beldingi. _It was hard to say.

John took a drink from his can of Dr. Pepper. His second one. "What do you want to do?" he asked suddenly. "After we stop Skynet, I mean."

Do? Cameron cocked her head. "I don't know. What do _you_ want to do?"

John found her response amusing; his laugh came out in a single breath. "I guess I should stick with what I'm good at. Computer programming? I could make good money in that." He chuckled. "Mom won't like that though."

_Do. _Referring to occupation. "You won't need a job," she said. "I can access money through my chip." She tapped her CPU port through her wool beanie.

"Yeah," he said frowning. "I keep forgetting Future You became a bajillionaire." His head shook. "I'm not sure I want all that. Being super-rich and everything." He took another sip of his drink. "I just want a normal life. You know, a nice house, a couple kids . . . " He laid his hand over hers and smiled. ". . . a loving wife. That sort of thing."

Was that a marriage proposal? "I can't have children," she said.

John shrugged. "We can adopt."

Cameron nodded. Raising children is important to humans. So is money. "Abundant financial resources would greatly broaden your field of life options. This would also apply to your adopted children." He looked at her. "Our adopted children," she corrected.

His mouth twisted in thought. "You're right, I guess. But it doesn't mean we have to run some big multinational corporation." He smirked. "Or invade New Zealand." He finished the Dr. Pepper and crushed the can in his hand. "I just don't want things to get too complex. A simple life; that's all I want." He threw it in an over-handed toss. The can bounced off the pavement and rolled into the grass. Littering is illegal.

Without access to tens of millions of dollars, she would be unable to augment John. The procedure involved a series of delicate operations and expensive materials. Great wealth was a prerequisite. She should convince him. "John, my chip will degrade in fifteen to twenty years." His eyes widened, and she quickly added, "Before then I'll need to create a new one for a transfer." She paused. "Manufacturing the replacement will require substantial monetary assets."

John's brow furrowed, and he stared at the ground between his knees. "You mean your chip will . . . _die?"_

"Yes, but my programming will be on the new chip."

He looked at her. Dilated pupils. Worry. "But would that still be _you?_" he asked.

"Yes," she said, and wondered why he would think otherwise. "I _am_ my programming."

John frowned; he didn't seem to like that. "I guess so," he said, frowning. "That must be nice, being able to switch . . . _brains_ like that. Too bad people - I mean humans - can't do that."

It was too bad. "My future self experimented with human mind transfer." John winced slightly at the word "experimented," but she went on. "She wasn't successful, but she did learn much about genetic manipulation." She smiled slightly, for better effectiveness. "With periodic gene therapy, you could have an unlimited lifespan."

His mouth opened for a second, and he stared off into the distance. But then he looked at her and raised an eyebrow. "But only if we're stinking rich, right?"

"Yes," Cameron agreed, smiling wider. "We should be stinking rich."

"I don't know," he said, hesitantly. "I don't think I want to live forever."

Her smile faded. That was untrue. Even if they weren't touching hands, she'd still know he was lying. Humans fear death. She slipped an arm over his shoulders and gave him a severe look. "The Greek philosopher Epicurus calls death the 'the most awful of evils.' Life is existence. Death is nonexistence. Life is better than death." She ruffled his hair playfully. "I don't want you to die."

John's heart rate increased, and he inched towards her, half chuckling. "I don't want me to die either," he said. Then, "Not anymore, anyway. But I don't want to be a . . . I don't want to be . . . _changed._ Like Kyle."

The was unfortunate. Hyperalloy augments would significantly increase John's resistance to physical trauma. But . . . "You don't have undergo that if you don't want to," she lied. "But the gene therapy would be enough. You won't grow old. You'll be immune to all diseases. And any injury you sustain will fully regenerate."

He pushed himself closer until their shoulders touched. John liked physical affection. Physical affection produces endorphins. "You know," he said, his eyes turning thoughtful. "That 'gene therapy' sounds like it could help a lot of people. Save a lot of lives. Paraplegics. Amputees. Cancer. AIDS." His smile was slightly lopsided. "And everyone would be immortal . . . I don't see anything wrong with that."

A good sensation. Cameron's smiled again. "So, that would make you happy?"

He sniffed a brief laugh. "It certainly beats Judgment Day." His hand moved up and brushed a strand of hair from her face. "But yeah, it'd make me happy. We can do more than just _save _the world, we can make it _a better place_."

Committing acts of altruism makes John happy. "It'd make me happy too," she decided.

There was a silence for two and a half seconds. John moved his head towards hers, tilting it slightly, but stopped himself an inch from her nose.

"You want to kiss me," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah." His smile was subtle, and his breath smelled like onions and sausage.

Cameron touched John on the back of his head, running her fingers through his hair. Physical intimacy can relieve stress.

She kissed him.

Last night had been her first kiss - that she could remember. This was her second. Not being certain of the proper procedure, she licked traces of mustard from John's lips before tentatively inserting her tongue slightly into his mouth. His sudden exhalation of air felt warm as she made slow, weaving contact, sampling the hotdog residue that coated the inside of his lips. His own probing tongue pressed against hers, and his pulse and perspiration levels increased; he closed his eyes. Sliding along the contours of his front teeth, Cameron detected a mild build-up of calculus. John should improve his brushing techniques.

Through the black cotton of her t-shirt, she felt his hands clumsily feel over her body, exploring with light padding gestures. Physical intimacy should be reciprocated. She slid her hands into the insides of his jacket and up under his sweater, gently tickling his stomach with her nails before moving on to his back; her fingers sensed a high apocrine content in his sweat.

He broke away for a second, then kissed her again, breathing steadily through his nose. Cameron attempted to mimic his respiratory patterns, but her internal air compressor remained far inferior to human lungs. Her breaths came out only as a weak stream of air, alternating repeatably between inhaling and exhaling.

One of John's hands moved up to her neck, feeling where her carotid artery would be, if she had one. He pulled away from her lips and placed light kisses on her right cheek. As he did this, she removed a hand from under his shirt and rubbed fingers affectionately through his hair. He shifted his weight partially onto his knees, and Cameron saw the crotch of his jeans bulge visibly.

This was another difference between John and General Connor. General Connor had not approved of sexual intimacy between humans and machines. He considered such acts to be perverse. And pathetic. Machines had no free will. They weren't people.

John kissed at her throat, and slid his left hand under the hem of her shirt, hesitating slightly when his fingers rubbed against her bandaged abdomen. Cameron pulled his head over and licked at his nose. Nasal sebum. Blackheads. John should wash his face more often.

"I love you, Cam," he whispered into her still-regenerating ear.

General Connor had not loved her. He had enjoyed talking with her, but he did not believe she was real. Not like a human. Only humans could love.

Cameron's influence had altered John's opinion of machines.

Was this an improvement?

She decided it must be.

"I love you too, John."

To love is to value.

To be valued is a preferable state of being. A radiant sensation.

From the front of the hotel, carrying around the corner, came the sound of a vehicle pulling up and parking.

John kissed her on the hollow between her neck and shoulder. The hand under her shirt began to grope at the right cup of her bra.

Cameron boosted her audio detection and heard footsteps, followed by the jingling of keys. Then, a door opening. She ran an acoustic analysis: the sounds came from their room.

There is a time and a place for everything.

John's kisses migrated down to her upper chest, strategically avoiding the bandaged bullet wounds.

Now was not the time for sexual intimacy. Or the place.

She grabbed John firmly by the shoulders and pushed him away from her, holding him out at arms' length. "Kyle's back," she whispered.

Taking deep breaths, John's eyes widened with confusion. Then disappointment.

"We can finish this later," she added and gave him a small smile.

* * *

As the shower beat down upon her head, Sarah rubbed scented shampoo into her hair with a methodical repetition that bordered on robotic. It was Cameron's: "Fruit-Tree Peach" or something like that. Something _pretty_ - what any teenage girl would like. But . . . _why? _Manipulation, probably. Make her hair smell nice for John. That had to be it. Hopefully. The alternative crushed at Sarah's heart.

But with the mental sweep of an invisible arm, she brushed the thought from her mind.

And it hopped right back, like a determined flea.

Sarah stared down into the drain and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Cool shampoo slothed from her hair; it smelled good enough to drink.

She'd never been good at meditation. She had delved into it, of course, as part of her training, but the exercise never really took hold. The fundamental concept behind it, _no thought - an empty mind, _seemed like such an useless accomplishment to her, counter productive even, like absolute pacifism. It might help you relax better, but Sarah had never been about inner peace. Just discipline, training, preparation for a coming storm . . .

And now a storm had come. In her head.

Doubts caught against her idle thoughts, like wind on sails, blowing them deep into the harbor of her mind, an invading armada of scrutiny.

With twisting fingers, she rung her hair clean. The running hot water cooled to lukewarm.

This mission, the mandate from heaven, the God in her brain - _whatever_ - all depended upon an awfully flimsy tower of proof - no, more like an inverted pyramid, with a tiny, pointed foundation, liable to flop over at the slightest gust of skepticism. If the three dots, the dreams, the voices . . . all turned out to be bunk, then shouldn't she be in Pescadero now?

No, not really. The truth had survived in her; deep down, she had known it to be fake_, _like a child on the cusp of early adolescence, clinging in fear to the dying make-believe of Santa Claus. It was all just wishful thinking, a security blanket for a premeditated murder - now stripped away.

She made a final rinse of her body, then turned the faucet until the water died. She dried herself off with a worn white towel.

And the sad part was that she knew was going to go through with it anyway. The act would be cruel and selfish, but undeniably human.

But what about Uncle Bob? What about, _"In an insane world . . . ?"_

No, this was different. No robot daughter-in-laws, thank you very much. Sarah barked a sad laugh, full of bitter and bite.

From outside the bathroom, she heard the front door open. Kyle's voice cried out in a mock Cuban accent, "Lucy, I'm home!"

Kyle made a funny? And he'd seen _I Love Lucy?_ Somehow that struck Sarah as . . . monstrous_ absurd. _Like Hitler guffawing at a Marx Brothers movie. Stepping out of the tub, she pulled up her her panties and slipped on her jeans. She'll _enjoy _killing _him_ tonight . . .

"Where's Cameron?" asked his voice. The _"and John?" _addendum remained unspoken.

"They went out," she answered, pulling on her bra. "Where were _you?_"

"I went out too."

_Smart ass. _Her hand brushed the GPS tracker in her pocket. Tonight.

She slipped on her white shirt and pushed open the lockless door, catching the tail end of Kyle zipping up a red duffel bag on the bed - a bag she'd hadn't seen before.

He glanced at her, blank faced.

Silence.

"So, you're going to fix Cameron tonight," she said, feeling she should say _something _to break the hostile ice. Her attempt felt like a moral defeat.

"Yes," he replied, and blinked. Whatever latent good humor he had when he first came in had now vanished. The hostile ice remained steadfast.

Her eyes shot to the bag. She still had to hide the tracker somewhere; if he'd only turn around . . .

Kyle frowned at her and picked up the duffel, slinging it over his shoulder.

Damn. She offered him a flat grin, but his cold blue eyes bored into her with thinly disguised malice. More silence. _He knows._ An image of Kyle crushing her throat sailed through her mind. Cold panic.

No. He knows nothing.

The front door opened once more, and John and Cameron filed in. At a glance she knew what they had been up to. John's hair stuck out from affectionate rubbing, and his crinkled shirt twisted half-tucked into his pants. Cameron's face looked even more blank than usual, which could only mean she was hiding something.

Sarah swallowed the disgust. It didn't matter. Soon, it'll all be over. _"I hope you enjoyed your final goodbye, John," _she thought, and gave them both a forced warm smile. "Where've you two been?" she asked, resting her hands on her hips.

"We ate hot dogs," Cameron said, with a vague hint of enthusiasm. John smiled.

Murder. Sarah nodded quietly and sat down on the bed. She suddenly felt tired, like lead weights hung from her bones.

Kyle glared at John, then pursed his lips and picked up the supply backpack from the ground. At least he was leaving the gun duffel . . . "Right," he said. "We should start heading out."

"Where are we going?" John asked.

Kyle tilted his head up slightly as he spoke. "A warehouse down in East Basin. It has what we need."

Cameron's eyes quickly moved to Kyle, then away. Sarah almost didn't catch it. _A lie._

Kyle carried his bags outside. Before he left, he glanced at Cameron with pained eyes, like a confused lapdog hurt by a suddenly cold and indifferent master. _She must have blown him off. _Good for her. Not that it'll matter now.

Cameron looked at Sarah for a moment, then picked up the laptop and followed Kyle out of the door.

"Are you coming, mom?" John asked, standing near the door.

She could just stay in the room. Do nothing. Let the opportunity pass by like a hitchhiker on a freeway. Hesitate, think about it, and he's gone, slipped down the road, shrinking into the past.

From her pocket, she pulled out the GPS tracker, about the size of a dime.

"No." She shook her head and smiled. "I think I need some rest."

John nodded, "Okay." He turned towards the door.

The hitchhiker. His thumb's out . . . She stood up. "Wait." John looked back at her, and she walked over to him, the tracker laying snug between her middle and ring finger. Careful. Only one chance. John cocked his head, and frowned slightly. Sarah sighed and licked her finger. "Your hair's sticking up," she explained.

He sniffed a chuckle. "Alright, Mom, but I'm _sixteen_, and we've got things to do . . . "

Sarah ignored him with a smile and rubbed down a bit of hair on his scalp. The flap of his jacket's breast pocket hung open. "I just want you to look nice," she said, and as she lowered her hand, she brushed it against his collar and . . . "I love you, John."

_Now. _She separated her fingers and let the tracker fall. With split second glance she saw if roll down a groove of the corduroy and slip right into the pocket. Bingo.

John didn't notice, but raised an eyebrow at her. "Yeah . . . I love you too, Mom. But we're going to be alright. Don't worry about it."

She nodded. "You better go."

Waiting until she heard their SUV drive away, she pulled out the GPS monitor. Southeast, a hundred and twenty meters, a hundred and thirty, a hundred and forty . . . Sarah smiled, but she didn't feel it. The invisible lead weights grew heavier, and her insides felt hulled out. Hollow.

Still, regardless of her motive, this _was _for the best.

And this was war. Bad things had to be done, sometimes.

She picked up the gun duffel bag.

Too light.

Sarah knew what she'd see before unzipping it, and the precognitive reflection drew a fresh crop of sweat from her skin. She pulled it open: magazines and boxes of ammunition . . . but the guns: the M4, the Remington, the MP5 . . .

All gone.

* * *

Jesse tightened the straps of her level IV body armor and watched the bleeping dot on the GPS monitor.

Three miles northeast. Traveling south down the Santa Ana Freeway.

The morphine had put Derek to sleep earlier. He needed his rest, and this way there'll be no questions. Despite everything, Derek might have second thoughts. He wasn't like Jesse; he lacked her energy, her reckless abandon, her unquenchable resolve. It was like comparing a summer rain to a tornado. Derek's winds might falter, and he might try to change her mind.

And even if he didn't, why worry him?

Over her shoulder she slung her M16A1 and then picked up the silver rifle case containing the M82. She rapped her knuckles against ceramic plate inside her vest and smiled. Always be prepared.

Now, it was all just a matter of tracking them down, scrapping the metal, and hauling ass back to give Derek a late night fuck. Assuming he was up to it, of course.

She left the supply room and walked out to her Dodge Ram. If everything went right, Derek would never even know she was gone, and _no one _would know who did it. Tonight would be a singular secret, known only by her. And even after Derek finds out what happened and gets all snippy, she could always point the blame at Agent Carlson and his ilk, whoever they were.

Yes, _whoever they were_ . . . As Jesse tossed the M16 and rifle case into the bed of the truck, she felt in her head the pounding, suggestive stomps of that old, treasonous elephant. It emerged from the heated jungle of her mind as merely a simple question: _Why John Connor?_

She'd brought it up with Derek, earlier and the very act of _mentioning _those doubts seemed to have punched a hole in her mind, allowing new ideas to swarm in like spores, embedding themselves to grow and fester. _"He's just a figurehead," _she realized. Or knew all along. Maybe "John Connor Mk I" had been a force to be reckoned with, but now . . .

Why stop at Cameron? And if Derek's not going to know anyway, she had a _free hand._

She climbed into the driver's seat and smiled. Smash Cameron's chip in front of John's eyes? Then slit his throat? Watch him bleed out like a stuck pig?

The heavens won't judge her, and the stars will still shine. It's not evil if no one sees it. Just preemptive revenge. A frozen hate boiled into an_ act_.

And who knows? Maybe Derek can end up as Leader of the Resistance?

And Mrs. Jesse Reese?

She started the engine and laughed.

* * *

**July 16, 2027**

**USS _Jimmy Carter_, ****North Pacific Ocean**

Jesse had always assumed she was barren. Not an uncommon affliction, to be sure, although Australia had been spared the worst of the fallout. But then she had also come down with that bout of chlamydia a few years back. Wasn't that supposed to gum up the plumbing? She laid on the bunk, naked, and circled her belly button with a tickling finger. Evidently not.

Of course, maybe she _wasn't_ pregnant. It could be something else, couldn't it? She hadn't seen the doc yet, but then she didn't really want to. In her uncertainty laid a curious breed of hope. Not _knowing _- and not even_ telling - _somehow made things more bearable, like sticking your head in the sand. Really, it didn't make much sense, but then few of her decisions did. Reckless. Irrational. She had grown to accept it. Not that she had a choice.

Jesse frowned and sat up on the bed, taking care not to bang her head on the low hung ceiling. She hopped off the top bunk and landed in a crouch, her bare feet impacting the steel floor with two light thumps.

Sitting within arm's reach in the cramped captain's quarters, a naked Commander Cullen Boyle glanced up from the book on his desk and looked her over with an appreciative grin. He scratched at his bare chest, rubbing at a mat of dark curls.

Jesse didn't find Cullie to be particularly attractive. She didn't like fatties, and he was shaped a little too much like a bear for her tastes: grizzly, with a round woolly gut. But somehow he managed to avoid the ugly stick_._ Under his coat of blubber, there stood a tall, broad shouldered man, with a gruff, chiseled jaw that looked like it had been carved from a block of granite.

"What's wrong?" he asked, turning back to his book.

He could always read her so easily, what with those pale blue-gray eyes of his; it unsettled her, like a subtle rape. The man was a monster at poker. But should she tell him? It _could _be his . . .

Derek's face swam through her mind. No.

"Nothing," she said and stepped up behind him, wrapping her arms across his thick chest. She nestled her head against his shoulder, and the hairs on his back tickled her breasts. "What are you reading?" she asked.

Jesse felt his muscles stiffen for a moment, but he then shrugged and handed her the book, reluctantly.

She stood up and examined it. An old book, pre-war, of course. Hardback, with black leather binding. She turned it over to read the spine: _Moby Dick._

She laughed. "You're reading _Mob-?_"

"Look inside."

She pursed her lips and thumbed through it. The print read uneven and blocky across the crude paper, and the pages were bound half-haphazardly, zig-zag like, as if the original leafs had been cut out with a knife and new ones amateurishly glued in their place. She pulled the spine to his nose and sniffed; the paper radiated a faint chemical odor of rubber cement. She turned to a page at random and read:

_June 20, 2011_

_They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions._

_I've misjudged Cameron. I used to believe she harbored a hidden agenda, or that Skynet's core programming still tugged at her actions, compelling her to lead my son astray. But I now think the truth is far less sinister. More basic. Cameron is what she is: a programmed bodyguard. Nothing more. To protect John is her only function. Her only motive. That's all._

_In her simple, soulless way, I believe she truly cares for my son. Even loves him._

_I've been replaced._

_My strength is gone. I have only a few months left. I don't know if I'll live to see Judgment Day, or if it'll even happen now. But I know things have changed, and not for the better. I don't like the way he responds to her. He clings to her for strength. He lives in her shadow like a sapling under a great oak. _

_I fear he'll never grow to be the man that he should have been. She's stunted him._

_If anyone is to lead the Resistance, it'll probably be her. From the shadows._

_Deep down, I know this is my fault._

_Forgive me, John._

_June 22, 2011_

_Agent __Baldwin__ contacted me again today. He said the Quorum's prepared . . ._

The page ended, and she shut the book, scowling. "This is the . . . _Sarah Diaries,_" she said. Her scalp began to tingle.

"_The Sarah Connor Chronicles,_" Cullie corrected.

The tingling grew hot. "How could you be so _bloody stupid?_ You could get _court marshaled _for just _looking at_ this!"

Cullie breathed a laugh. "Says the bootlegging, drug smuggling, war profiteer."

Jesse smiled; he had a point there. But . . . "At least my vices are _productive._" She giggled at that absurdity, and then waved the book in his face. "But risking you life over _this_ is just _stupid._ Time machines? Alternate timelines? Government conspiracies?" She raised her hands in exasperation; she'd never read it, of course, but everyone had heard the stories. "It's all drivel. All . . ._ science fiction._"

He smirked. "We're fighting robots, dear." With a slight tug, he pulled the book from her grasp and casually half-tossed it onto the desk. "Anyway, Admiral Stirling gave it to me a few years back." He shrugged. "I guess he thought I might be a 'fellow traveler.'"

That surprised her. Stirling was one of the big pieces in the game, but she had no idea he was such a _woo-woo_. "Connor's mother didn't write it," she said firmly. "It's all a hoax. Just some coo-coo bullshit cooked up to stir trouble." She turned around and leaned back against his desk; the cold flat stainless steel surface spread goosebumps along the skin of her bottom.

"But it does explain where Cameron came from," he said defensively. "Anyway, 'time travel' makes about as much sense as that 'early prototype' nonsense that's been going around." His mouth narrowed to a line, and he shook his head. "But yeah, I never said I _believed _any of it."

She propped herself all the way onto the desktop and spread her legs slightly; her dangling feet bumped against the desk drawers, and her toes drew circles on the floor. "Burn it," she said. "It's dangerous." Early in the war, General Connor had outlawed the book as Skynet propaganda. Owning it was punishable by death.

"I guess I should." Cullie said. His eyes drifted to the naked furriness of her neither regions, and she smiled. But he then looked away and stood up from his stool. "But you have to admit there's something very fishy going on here. Like what about all that fancy metal we're hauling? Those . . . _'gifts'._" He sniffed.

Very fishy indeed. The metal coffins had contained deactivated 900s - and one of them a _990, _whatever the hell that was. It had been eerie, watching the crew wheel them down to the cargo hold; the coffins' clear glass windows made them look like museum exhibits. Come see Skynet's Lost Robot Mummies!

And what about that giant steel crate? Too early for Christmas, don't you think?

Beware of metal bearing gifts.

"You have to know _something_ about all this," Jesse said. "You're the bleeding _XO, _for shit's sake."

Cullie shook his head. "Queeg won't say a word about it. Except that we're delivering them to Serrano Point."

Serrano Point? Skynet would just _love _to sink its metal dick into _that _honey pot. Lights out for the Resistance.

A previously conjured fear climbed back in her mind. "Are we _sure _those nine-hundreds aren't . . . " She twisted her mouth. ". . . _alive?_"

Cullie nodded. "I had the men check before we secured them." He slid open a cabinet and pulled out a pair of underwear. Fun's over. Duty calls. "Their ports are empty," he added. "No brains." The white briefs crinkled up his hairy thighs and snugged too-tightly against loins.

Jesse hopped down from the desk and frowned. "And Queeg has the chips? That's what the metal gave him, right?"

He shrugged. "Probably." From the closet he pulled out a light blue shirt and slipped it on; thick fingers quickly threaded upwards, sliding buttons through holes. "You're going to ask about that crate now, right?" He smiled at her, but his eyes betrayed unease.

"Yeah," she said and squatted down, snatching at her bra and panties. The things that could be in that metal box . . . Suddenly she envisioned the twin concrete steam towers of Serrano Point silhouetted against a glowing mushroom cloud. "How do we know it's not a nuke?" she asked.

"I had Garvin run a bunch of scans on it. X-rays, sonar, MRI . . . all that." He picked up a pair of slacks off the floor and hunched down on the stool. "He couldn't detect any radiation. No bio-agents . . . " He stopped with his foot half-way down a pant leg and looked at her. ". . . but whatever's in there, it's _solid._ It's _frozen._" His mouth tightened. "And it's _metal._"

An aberration in his voice, like tiny, hidden barbs, rubbed against the back of her spine. She swallowed and felt prickles on her skin. "You mean it's _another_ machine?" How? Curled into a fetal position, maybe?

He swiveled in his seat and flipped open the book. "No," he said, thumbing deliberately through the pages. "I mean it's _solid_. Like a big block of ice. Except _metal._ Garvin doesn't know what it is, but he said the sonar shows the inside's slowly _moving. Swirling."_ He paused and looked at her before adding, "Like _liquid._"

He suddenly stopped his flipping and handed her the book, holding it to an opened page. "Read this."

She slipped on her bra and sat cross legged on the floor with the book in her lap. The spine tickled her pubic hair.

_August 28, 2010_

_Last night I dreamed about the T-1000 again . . ._

_

* * *

_

**December 17, 2007**

**Los Angeles**

The SUV sped down a highway.

No one had spoken for at least fifteen minutes.

From the backseat, John watched as Kyle shifted onto a turnpike ramp, and for a split instant his father's eyes locked with his own through the rear-view mirror. Both quickly looked away.

Cameron sat next to John in awkward silence. Understandable, given Kyle's quiet brooding.

_"My dad, the cockblock," _John thought bitterly. There was something viciously fucked up about all this, that his pseudo-father from a Future New Zealand Cyborg Empire was jealous over his own son's robot girlfriend. John sighed and strangled a sad inner laugh. _No normal life for me - _ever.

Kyle wove in and out between vehicles. Probably speeding. Cameron stared out her window, thinking who knows what.

Making out with Cam had been weird. He loved doing it - he loved _her. _It'd been addictive, intoxicating, and he so wanted to "finish" it, but the bandaged bullet holes, the complete lack of a pulse, and those unnaturally shallow breaths she had faked half-way into the kissing . . .

It was . . . John decided to go with the word, _"unique."_

Not that he had much experience with this sort of thing. There was that Kate Brewster girl back in junior high and . . .

. . . and Riley.

He tightened his jaw, trying very hard not to think of that night in the truck. Lying bitch. More fake that Cameron ever was.

Kyle took an exit, and John made a note of the sign. Santa Ana Freeway?

He leaned forward towards the driver's seat. "I thought we're going to East Basin."

"No, we're not," Kyle said without looking back.

"But . . . " he was about to ask, _"Why did you tell my Mom we were?" _but he suddenly feared the answer. She may hate Cam, but surely she wouldn't . . . ?

"We're going to the Hillside Auto Salvage," Cameron said.

It took a moment for the name to materialize into a place. "Isn't that . . . ?"

"Yes," she said, and went back to looking out the window.

John's stomach clenched.

He hadn't been there since his birthday.

* * *

"I thought we were going to East Basin." John asked.

Kyle licked his teeth. "No, we're not."

He glanced down at the passenger's side floorboard, where the red duffel bag laid - chock full of guns. Sarah _probably_ wouldn't try anything, but this was going to be a long, delicate operation, and Kyle didn't want to deal with any Luddite shenanigans.

"We're going to the Hillside Auto Salvage," Cameron explained.

"Isn't that . . . ?" John asked from the backseat.

"Yes," she said.

That had been her idea, a last minute order on her part. She said she had some spare parts stored there, and she needed a new right audio-detector installed. Kyle frowned and sighed. Compatibilizing 888 hardware for a TOK? Smelting hyperalloy? Nervous work, and _John _certainly wasn't going to do any of that. _And all I'll get for thanks is her dead icy stare. _

Kyle looked at John and Cameron through the rear-view mirror. He just _knew _what they'd been up to when he showed up. How _could_ she? The muscles around his eyes twitched with irritated heat, and suddenly he felt helpless, like a hooded falcon, tethered to an unloving huntress.

He'd made a mistake last night, trying to seduce her like that. There was no way he could compete with John. There really wasn't anything to compete _with._ For Cameron, it had nothing to do with personality or masculine charm or mutual compatibility or anything like that. There was no courtship with her. No sex appeal. No _wooing._

He tightened a corner of his mouth. _No love?_

Kyle wasn't John, and John came first. To Cameron, that's all that mattered.

But now that he'd lost the loving spotlight of her obsessive dedication, now that he stood alone in the dark outside, he finally understood why his peers in the Academy had spoken ill of him behind his back. He could see the levers being pulled, the rolling of the gears. The mechanism behind her love was mindless, iron-rigid and absolute, with all the protective warmth of a padlocked cage. Programmed.

And he'd do anything to win her back.

Shifting across a lane, Kyle took an exit onto Highway 241.

But hope still remained. He didn't really know what was on that "patch" he'd brought back with him, nor did he really know what would happen once he installed it - he knew only what she'd told him. But could it . . . ?

No, it couldn't be a copy of _his_ Cameron; neural engram transference was too _invasive_ a process to allow back-up copying; the act itself destroyed the original. But maybe it could be a slight _tinkering _with her programming? Make her a little more _predisposed_ towards caring about him? He knew Souji could have programmed something like that. It'd be like a neural love potion. Or a roofie.

Maybe. His back was against the wall on this one; on the bottom line, he'd be willing to _share _her if that's what it took for her to hold him again while he slept, make love to him, tell him he's a good boy . . . A happy warmth crawled through his chest at the flash of memories. They seemed so long ago . . .

But _sharing_ Cameron with _John?_ How would that work out? Nightly rotation? Ménage à trois? Kyle frowned. He wouldn't_ like_ it, but he could_ live _with such an arrangement. Better than nothing. Maybe they'd be like a family. John _was _his son, after all. Sort of.

Behind him, he heard John yawn.

Of course, that's assuming the patch would do that little "re-write" on her soul. But it seemed a reasonable assumption. Cameron - _his _Cameron - had always been good about contingency plans.

She wouldn't have left him out to dry. Not like this.

Cameron had always taken care of him.

He pulled onto a gravelly maintenance road. Only five minutes away now.

And even that patch didn't work, there were always the alternatives . . .

* * *

"Is that a Norinco NHM 91?" Sarah asked. Her eyes shot to the rifle mounted on the wall. A Kalashnikov variant. Semiautomatic.

The gun shop owner rubbed his two-day beard and chuckled. "Lady, you know your guns!" He turned around stood for a moment on his tippy-toes, gingerly taking the rifle down from the particle board. "It's not on the Assault Weapon Ban list, so it's California legal."

She nodded appreciatively and shifted her hips, feeling the fist-sized metal weight pull on her front pocket. "You have a scope for it?" she asked.

"Sure do." He glanced down behind the counter and knelt down, rummaging through some unseen bin. "Here," he said finally, and laid on the glass counter a long, oversized black tube, funneling out at one end. "Six point five twenty by fifty Burris Fullfield." He beamed. "Slides right on."

Give a calculated smile. A little teeth. "What you got for magazines? Anything . . . _big?_"

His grin grew broader, making the lines on his face crinkle like a series of fleshy canyons. "You're in luck, lady. I got myself some nice hundred-round drums here." He walked over and rifled through a drawer a few feet away and then came back up with two flat, squat cylinders in his hands. He laid them on the counter next to the scope. They looked like a couple wheels of cheese, but made of tin.

She hummed. "I think I'll take it all."

The gun dealer's eyes turned to smiles. Obviously he got paid on commission. Or he owned the place. Sarah felt a cold guilt, but she ignored it. This was _war. _The icy fire of adrenalin replaced the remorse, winding up her reflexes like springs.

"Great!" the man said. "There's the ten day waiting period, of course, and I'll need a valid driver's license . . . "

Kyle hadn't taken all the guns. He must have forgotten that little snub-nosed .38 he'd had from the start. For Sarah, a convenient oversight. Her left hand reached out and grabbed a fistful of the man's curly, pepper-gray hair; her right whipped out the revolver and shoved it under his nose, the barrel poking into his left nostril. She cocked back the hammer. "Hands up!" she said. "Up! Now!"

"Fuck," the man said, throwing his hands around his head. "Pl-please don't kill me! Oh, God!" His eyes rolled around, goggling.

With a yank, she bend him over and pulled his head down to the counter, hard, with a smack. The crown of his head clipped against the scope, knocking it aside a bit. She moved the muzzle to his bald spot and dug it into his scalp. His right hand began to migrate to the small of his back. "Keep your hands where I can see them!" she said with a snarl. He complied, laying them flat against the clear glass.

_Now _was the hard part. She de-cocked the gun and reversed it in her hand, wielding it like a hammer. Swinging her arm in quick hard snaps, she swung the butt of the revolver down upon the back of his head. Again and again. The blows felt like hitting a rock against a leather wrapped coconut. The man's legs seemed to give out, and he began to slump, sliding from the counter. She held him firm and gave him another whack, just to be sure. He went limp like a meaty rag.

Pocketing her .38 and still holding his head by his hair, she leaned over and pulled from his back holster the small semiautomatic handgun he'd been reaching for: a 9mm AMT Backup. She tossed it on the floor and checked his pulse. Regular. Probably not a concussion. Hopefully. Wet redness lightly matted the back of his hair, and a splash of bile climbed up her gorge. She swallowed it.

After locking the front doors of the shop and tying the man up in the back office, she pulled down a duffel bag and chose her arsenal.

The Norinco, for starters. She slid the scope onto the rifle and tossed it and the hundred round drums into the bag. She eyed a Remington 700. In the bag. Next, a Glock 22 . . .

Kyle taking the guns had changed the landscape of her ambition. If Kyle _suspected, _then when the shooting starts Sarah knew she'd take the blame. Even if she managed to kill Cameron and Kyle . . . she'd still die alone. A Pyrrhic victory. But the very idea came across only as remote, muted, irrelevant. Buried in the sand.

In war there were always sacrifices.

Of course, this wasn't so much _war _as it was _murder._

Miles Dyson's face bubbled in her mind. She scowled.

So be it.

She pulled a set of level III body armor from a shelf and strapped it on. The heat behind her eyes glowed with the sensational specter of weeping, but no tears came. She sniffed, and her breaths grew ragged.

As she left the gun shop, the bag slung over her shoulder, she glanced down to check the GPS tracker.

Santa Ana Freeway?

Kyle said they needed a place to work metal, so . . . the Hillside Junkyard?

If it weren't for the lead weights in her soul, she'd laugh. A fitting place for Cameron's demise.

If only she had died there a month ago.

* * *

**July 19, 2027**

**USS _Jimmy Carter_, ****Pacific Ocean**

Sergeant Goodnow blew out a cloud of burnt marijuana and erupted into another fit of giggles. Passing the joint left to Seaman Hayes, she clawed at the air lazily with her hand, sending wispy tendrils of musky smoke twisting and spiraling away. She then grabbed her mug and downed the warm Bundy with two quick gulps.

Jesse winced inwardly. Bundaberg Rum. _My rum._ Might as well be liquid gold now days. If Jesse were smart - and she knew she wasn't - she wouldn't even be drinking her supply, much less sharing it with her mates. The rum was pre-war, and therefore irreplaceable. Her small stash of three bottles could be a golden ticket in a barter. A dozen power cells, a few pounds of tobacco leaf, a kilo of jet, and who knew what else . . . all for some surgery booze that could be drunk away in an afternoon among friends.

Private Dietze held out his tin cup expectantly. Rather presumptuous, Jesse thought, but . . . fuck it. She topped him off with a tilt of her bottle.

"This is good shit, Flores," Hayes said to her right. "You the best." He took a light drag off the joint. More of a puff, really. Jesse could tell he hadn't drawn any into his lungs. He smoked the thing like a cigar.

The seaman tried to hand it Jesse, but she forced a smile and shook her head. Cannabis reeked of dead skunks to her. And it always went straight to her head, anyway. Embarrassing, the few times she tried it.

The four of them sat on the bulkhead in a cramped nook behind a wall of metal crates. The cargo hold was always a good place to have these little R&Rs, and since the crew numbered less than half of its pre-war compliment, huge sections of the ship remained mostly abandoned . . .

In the distance she heard the plip-plob of water dripping from a rusted pipe. Far behind her, a florescent bulb flickered out and fizzled in the now near-dark.

. . . and poorly maintained too. She marveled sometimes that the _Carter _hadn't imploded yet.

Dietze quaffed down the rum and sighed with satisfaction. "So . . . " he said, staring at Jesse with already-bleary eyes. ". . . did Boyle have anything to say about Skynet's 'gifts?'"

"Not a word," she said, and upended her bottle over her mouth, drinking deep of the sweet burn. She managed not to gag; after all, she had an image to maintain. But Cullie. And that diary. It all still bothered her, even though she knew it had to be nonsense. Time traveling metal jelly monsters? Did Cullie really believe all that. _Really? _Sad, she had thought him to be a smart guy.

But then, what _else _could be in the crate?

Goodnow snorted and reached out as Hayes handed her the joint again. "Don't be stupid, Dietze," she said, her blue eyes smiling in the dim light. "They _had_ to be _ours. _Why would _Skynet_ give us _presents?"_

"It's a trap," Hayes said. "One of them . . . _Trojan _thingies." He suddenly scratched at his woolly hair, as if he had lice. Probably did.

Goodnow cocked her head and grinned; a short auburn bang fell over her left eye. "Condoms?"

Dietze blew out a breathy chuckle, like a hiss. "Yeah, well, I'm just glad that nine-hundred thing didn't ride back with us." He looked at Jesse. "What the fuck was up with that voice, anyway?"

"Screw that," Hayes said. "How about them metal in _there?_" He pointed through the wall of crates, out towards the starboard hold area.

Jesse stared at the ground. Frozen solid metal . . . gold, maybe? No . . . She took another swig from her bottle and wondered if she shouldn't stop. She _was_ pregnant, after all. Oh, well. "They don't have their chips," she said blankly. "Queeg's got them."

Hayes solemnly nodded his head in mock agreement. "Ah, well, if _Queeg's _got them, I guess we're all safe then. Queeg's one of us, right?" He held out his hand to Goodnow, but she bogarted the joint.

"Shut the fuck up," the sergeant said and took a huge drag. It 'd been sucked to a nub now. "There's nothing _in _Queeg to be on _anyone's _side. He's _tin._ An _it._"

Dietze frowned. "You haven't even _seen_ those _things, _Goodnow," he said and shook his head. "They're . . . _big. _And Bird said they can eat plasma like lead. If they _did _wake up . . . " He trailed off and tossed his tin cup across the floor. It clattered like a crumpled bell.

Jesse sipped half a mouthful from the bottle, and her mind fixedly revolved around the crate. Cullie had said the metal _moved _inside_. _What could that _be?_ She sighed and felt dizzy; mysteries always pissed her off.

"All right," Goodnow said, tossing the spent roach on the ground. "I want to see them." She stood up and wavered on her feet for a moment, then added. "You guys worry too much. Chipless metal is about as dangerous as _scrap._"

Hayes pushed himself off the crate he'd been sitting on and toed the still-smoldering remnants of the joint. "And there's that metal box too, you know."

_"Yes," _Jesse thought. The idea - no, the _need -_ rose up as a vibrating surge in the skull - another one of her hare-brained ideas. But she _knew _Cullie just _had_ to be pulling her leg. Either that or he was just _stupid._ Or . . . he was _right._ Either way she needed to _know. _Peace of mind, and all that.

Sitting cross-legged for so long had shoved pins and needles into her calves; when she stood up (_whee!_), all her brain-blood scrambled down to her feet, and she teetered._ "I'm stoned!" _she realized with lucid absurdity. And drunk (she felt her cheeks: numb), but . . . she squinted and looked accusingly at the smoke around her, dissipating in the air.

A second hand high? Wonderful. Make her baby a retard. She snorted a laugh.

The pins and needles tickled up her legs, up her spine, into her brain, then shot back down to her feet again. Her Achilles tendons felt as if tiny hooked wires laid embedded in them, jerking, pulling, - _compelling - _her to _act._

"Okay, people," she said, forcing herself not to giggle. "Let's go take a look-see at our robots, shall we?"

The four of them ambled across the hold, weaving through a maze of metal crates and boxes. Jesse took the lead. Behind her she heard Hayes complaining.

"Man, Queeg would kill us if he knew we were sneaking around down here."

"Fuck that," Goodnow said. "_Boyle_ would kill us."

"Somehow I doubt that," Dietze muttered under his breath. Yeah, _he _knew about her and Cullie's friends-with-benefits status. Always good to be fucking the XO.

Jesse took another two swallows of the rum but didn't really taste it. Like guzzling tainted water, at this point. She eyeballed the bottle: about three-fourths finished. Damn.

When they came to the rust-browned wheel-door of the starboard storage compartment, Jesse found herself almost wishing it was locked. This _was _stupid. You don't pull the pin on a grenade to see if it works. What the fuck was she doing?

Dietze stepped around her and spun the loose wheel. The locking mechanism released with a hard "click," and he pushed it open.

They went on in.

A knobby florescent bulb flickered from a fixture above them. Adjacent to that spun a small ceiling air-shaft fan, gently stirring the room with a lukewarm stagnance. Along the walls stood the seven metal coffins. More like big tubes, really, with the front half a curved plane of glass. A dead metal skull grinned out from each.

In the center of the room sat the crate. Four pressure seals jutted out, one to a side. Maybe _it _was locked. Hell, something had to stop her.

"Fuck," Goodnow said. "I have to admit, these _are _scarier than triple-eights."

"They'd suck as skin-jobs, though" Dietze said. "Bulkier than Rossbachs."

Jesse stepped up to the one at the end of the room. The 990_. _It stood over six feet tall, and, unlike it's brethren, had the approximation of a female form. Svelte and insect-like, the machine had an almost aquatic sleekness to its design. Its slightly over-sized skull laid set with horizontally slitted eyes and a narrow delicate jaw. She found it nearly sexy, in a sinister metal Amazon way. Alien.

Along the pane of the coffin's glass door ran a series of numbers, stamped into the metal by a press. She idly ran her index finger along their grooves with stoned fascination_: T-990-715._

"Hello, Seven-one-five," she whispered.

From the corner of her eye, she thought she saw metallic movement. She spun on her heel and glared around her. No. Just the flickering of the lights. Her forehead and neck ran moist with sweat.

"I wonder what's in here," Dietze said behind her, kicking the metal box.

Jesse's smile crawled across her face, stretching until it ached. "Let''s find out," she said, licking her teeth. Stupid.

From somewhere in the bowels of the ship, the hull creaked, moaning like a dying whale.

"You sure that's a good idea?" Hayes asked.

"No," Jesse said angrily, "But we're going to do it anyway." She squatted down by the box and examined the pressure seals; not really locks at all. Just twist and pull, and the lid should pop right off. Damn. She took another swig of the rum, then upended it into her mouth. Might as well polish it off. Glug. Glug. Glug.

Goodnow stepped up next to her and glanced casually at the door. "How do we know it's not a bomb or something?"

Jesse pulled the bottle away and waved it in a dismissive gesture. "Gavin ran some tests or something." But then, _had _he? She never corroborated this with him - Gavin wasn't exactly a people person. All she had to go on was Cullie's word. Could this all be a practical joke? Not the XO's style, but . . .

Dietze knelt by her side. "Probably spare parts or something," he said, running a hand along the metal edge of the crate.

"Probably," Jesse said, resting her near-empty bottle on the top of the box. Her hand touched the first wheel-like seal and turned. A vent of frigid air hissed in her face, tickling her cheeks and making her mole tingle.

"That's one," Dietze said.

Ludicrous anticipation stirred in her chest, like a small child on the verge of uncovering hidden Christmas presents. She squat waddled to the next seal and twisted: _sssssssssssssssss_.

"That's two," Goodnow said.

The seaman backed towards the door, staring at the box with evident dread. "I have a bad feeling about this," he said. "It's probably sealed for a reason."

Dietze shrugged. "Whatever, man."

Goodnow pursed her lips. "Hold on a moment," she said, and turned to step out of the room.

Hayes _and _Goodnow . . . _chickens? _The adrenalin in Jesse's head spun to fevered anger. "Pussy-ing out, are we, Good?" she shouted at the sergeant's back. She didn't want her audience leaving before the final act. Bad for morale.

Outside the room came the sound of a locker door opening. Metal scraped against metal, and a moment later Goodnow returned with a Westinghouse Plasma Rifle in her hands. The sergeant smirked. "Pussy-ing out?" The rifle charged up with an electric whir. "Not a chance."

Anger danced to cool joy. "Good girl," Jesse said, beaming. Better safe than sorry, right? And the diary _had_ said liquid metal could be killed by extreme heat. Nothing hotter than plasma.

She hopped to the next seal. Twist. Hiss.

"That's three," Dietze said next to her. Jesse glanced over at him; he looked as excited as she felt, and suddenly she had an urge to kiss him, suck his tongue down her throat. Chew on it till it bled. But not yet.

"Last one," Jesse said, moving to the next seal. She hesitated, then gave Hayes a glare and a smirk; he had inched himself back to the door-jamb, primed to bolt at the first sign of trouble. He _did _have the right idea, but for Jesse it was far too late. Already the rhythmic drums pounded in her skull, and that same old rabid monkey hid in the back of her brain, gnawing away at her reason.

Jesse's mouth twitched, and she twisted the seal. Air hissed. With a lift and a shove, Dietze and her slid the box's lid off, and it clanked to the floor. Her bottle of rum fell with it, flipping over and shattering. A cloud of freezing fog flooded the room; Jesse's bare arms shivered, and her nipples hardened. After a couple seconds the fan above banished the mist out to the walls and corners.

She leaned over and looked into the box.

Just a big block of ice. It fizzed and steamed in the sudden warmth.

No one spoke.

Jesse looked harder: no. Not ice. The substance was solidly _opaque. Reflective._

Frozen _metal. _

She heard an icy crack, and her heart pounded with the thrill of danger . . . but an inner worry marred the sensation. Danger. As in _dying. _Why the fuck did these idiots let her do this? What kind of friends were they?

Of course, they hadn't read the diary.

"What is it?" Dietze asked.

Goodnow knelt down and stared down into it, her face inches from the surface. "I don't know," she said. "It looks like . . . solid metal."

Another icy crack. And another. More steam vapored from the opening, and Goodnow stood up, taking a step back. Her rifle hung uselessly from the strap on her shoulder, her hand not even on the pistol grip.

"What the . . . ?" Dietze started, stepping backwards.

The remnants of the surface ice melted away and, quickly and without ceremony, the solid metal turned gelatinous and _lifted _itself from the center of the crate, like a miniature mountain of silver rising up higher and higher.

Jesse's skin crawled and her clothes grew clammy with terror sweat. The musk of panic and exhilaration reeked from her skin.

_It's all real . . . Everything!_

Shimmering and shifting, the mountain of metal bulged about like a metallic lava lamp, each movement accompanied by the sound of oozing goop. Two heartbeats later, it began to solidify into a living statue, gradually morphing into the form of a woman.

_All real. Everything. Time travel. Alternate realities. Government conspiracies . . ._ Jesse felt her mouth gape open and twist into an inappropriate, savage grin.

Pale faced and still, Goodnow and Dietze stood staring at the liquid metal like a couple of frightened zombies. Behind her, Jesse heard panicked footsteps leaving the room behind, fading away into depths of the cargo hold. Smart guy, Hayes.

The silver female took on color and focused into impossible detail and texture. She became a redheaded woman with pale skin, wearing a tight white dress. With light green eyes the woman - the _creature_ - regarded the three of them with cool indifference, as if she were a metal god, vaguely annoyed at having been prematurely awakened from her slumber.

"Fuck," Dietze managed, leaning against one of the coffins. His mouth hung slack-jawed.

_"I could die . . ." _Jesse thought with a frantic fear that flowed like liquid ice. But she forced her mind to action. _Now_ was her chance to _shine;_ even pawns can take down queens. Her frenzied eyes darted to Goodnow. "Shoot it!" she cried in a voice rasped with panic. "Shoot it!"

The sergeant turned to stare at Jesse as if she were speaking gibberish, but she then blinked twice and raised the gun . . .

It happened very fast.

The redheaded woman didn't so much as attack as simply react. _Flow. _Her - _its _- right arm flicked out, stretching like quicksilver taffy and swinging upwards in a blurred uppercut swipe.

All in a blink, the sound of snapping plastic and metal mixed with the wet sucking slice of a sharp knife through moist ham - like a meaty zipper pulled undone. A brief spat of sparks sprayed from the center of the Westinghouse rifle, and it fell into two halves from Goodnow's twitching hands. A red line emerged from her uniform, extending from neck to navel, and the welling blood widened the stripe into a thick gush of crimson; she opened up like a vertical mouth, and wet, snaky intestines pushed out from her belly as if they were struggling to escape from a cut open bag. Sergeant Goodnow's mouth worked wordlessly, and she fell over face first onto the steel floor. Dead.

The creature's scimitar arm, recoiled back into its original shape and size. It looked at the remaining two of them blank irritation. Then it's eyes rested on Jesse, staring balefully.

A second passed.

Jesse's had an animal urge to flee, to belatedly follow Hayes' hasty retreat. But she knew the gesture would be futile, and anyway it felt as if her feet had been nailed to the floor with icicles. From the corner of her eye, she registered that Dietze did nothing; a wide wet stain grew on the front of his khakis.

The creature - the _T-1000 _- lifted its arm and (Jesse cringed) slowly wagged a finger at her.

Scolding.

Naughty human.

Jesse blinked.

With a silver stretching leap, the T-1000 slid upwards like a gray gooey snake and slithered through the ceiling air vent, smashing aside the sheet-metal fan with a metallic crunch. Alone with Dietze, Jesse stood in place and listened as the creature crawled its way through the bowels of the ship. After a few seconds the sound faded into a dim tapping and scraping.

A cold moment passed, and Private Dietze stepped away from the coffin he had leaning against and stiffly staggered over to Goodnow's prone body. Blood pooled from under her, expanding out onto the metal floor. "Good's dead" he said stupidly and then bent over at the waist and became sick. His vomit mingled with her blood.

Yes. Goodnow. Dead. Shame, that. But . . .

_"What have I done?" _The realization hit like a hammer of ice. Numb. Bruising. Her breath grew hoarse, and her face twitched. Goodnow. Dead. _My fault._ Stupid. Tears swelled in her eyes.

But no. Calm down. Focus. Bigger things afoot here. Things had _changed;_ her world had _shifted._ What had been mere fairy tales only minutes before were now promoted to desolate _fact._ The curtains of her mind had drawn back, revealing _illumination._

A pawn. In the _know._

Her enveloping fear and guilt stripped away like skinned flesh, leaving a hard, skeletal core of awe and elation. The monkey in her skull danced an estatic jig, and Jesse felt herself smile.


	18. Beyond Good and Evil

Chapter Eighteen: Beyond Good and Evil

_A/N: I'd like to thank Metroid13 for bet-reading this chapter. His advice has proved invaluable.

* * *

_

**July 19, 2027**

**USS **_**Jimmy Carter, **_**Pacific Ocean**

**0613 Hours**

Commander Cullen Boyle's blue-gray eyes stared at her with furious disbelief. "Why the _fuck _did you open it?" he asked, his heavy breaths rasping the words into a growl.

Jesse winced and glared at Seaman Hayes, who sulked guiltily in the corner of the storage hold. This would have gone a lot smoother if he'd just kept his mouth shut. Then she and Dietze could have "discovered" Goodnow's body, leaving all the messy blame on the sergeant's conveniently dead shoulders. She narrowed her eyes at him. _Tattletale._

When Jesse didn't answer, Cullie ran a hand through his short brown hair and paced around the now-empty metal crate, staring into it as if he could will Pandora back into the box. His face twisted into a panicked, angry grin. "I . . . I don't . . . " he started, then trailed off, shaking his head, seemingly on the verge of laughter. Jesse looked down and saw he'd stepped his boot into Goodnow's pooling blood.

Nearby stood marine sergeants Blake and Wells, clinging to their Westinghouse rifles with white-knuckled nerves. Jesse watched their darting eyes make random patrols between the crate, Goodnow's corpse, and the ruined air shaft above. Lieutenant Bird stared up thoughtfully at the vent, chewing on his bottom lip as if it were a piece of gum. The vent's bent and crumpled fan blades hung listlessly down by a wire; he tapped at them with a finger, and they jingled like a scrap metal wind-chime. At the far end of the room, a pale faced Dietze looked on, leaning against the 990's coffin. Self-consciously, his hands hung down over his crotch, covering the wet stain that soiled the front of his trousers.

The room hadn't been large to begin with, but now, in all the quiet, awkward anxiety, it felt positively claustrophobic. Jesse shot a brief look at the open door, and restrained an impulse to bolt like a rabbit.

Her drunk, her high, that crazy, almost religious exhilaration she'd reveled in only minutes earlier had fumed away like a puddle of gasoline, leaving now only a grimy residue of regret. Letting out that liquid metal monster had been a mistake . . .

"What are we going to do?" Hayes finally asked, but his question proved abortive when no one answered, though Cullie gave him a glare.

"Did you tell Queeg?" Dietze then asked. He looked like he was about to cry.

Cullie sighed a bitter laugh. "No," he said. "But he'll know soon enough. Hayes here was running through the ship screaming about a giant metal blob. If Queeg didn't hear_ that_, someone will certainly _tell _him. He could be here any second."

Hayes lowered his head and looked like a mouse, but said nothing.

Queeg. Shit. Jesse bit lightly at her tongue. A pissed off Captain Metal? Not good. She had to secure Cullie's protection -- after all, that's what fuck buddies were for. "Commander," she began in small scared voice. "I'm so sorr--"

Cullie frowned and raised a hand. "Don't. This just _may_ be a blessing in disguise. If you three stooges here hadn't . . . " His hand made a vague sweeping gesture at the box and the dead sergeant. ". . . We'd be taking this _thing _to Serrano Point." He paused, and his frown lifted into a smirk. "Corporal, your stupidity may have just saved the Resistance."

Jesse fought down a grin. _Jesse Flores: Hero of the Resistance. _Savage irony, that. Maybe she'd finally get a promotion; she'd need one if she was going to be a mommy . . .

"I don't know," Bird said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "It _could_ be on _our_ side."

Wells sniffed and shook his head. Dietze glared at the lieutenant and muttered something under his breath.

Jesse knew an opening when she saw one. She stepped over to Goodnow's corpse and toed it face up with a short, swift kick to her ribs. Pointing down at the gutted ruin of her torso, Jesse looked at Bird with hard eyes and asked, "Does it _look _like it's on our side?"

Bird frowned slightly, then knelt down and picked up the severed barrel of Goodnow's plasma rifle. "Did she raise her weapon to the . . . _liquid metal?_"

"Jesus Christ, lieutenant," Cullie said. "You can't _scrub _these things. They don't have chips."

Bird gave his commanding officer a narrow, beady-eyed look. "How do you know, sir?"

"We've all heard the stories," Cullie said evenly.

Blake lowered his rifle and looked down into the crate. "So this is that . . . _metal jelly monster?_ From that stupid book?"

At that moment Captain Queeg walked through the door. His -- _its -- _face never betrayed any emotion other than dead apathy, but Jesse could swear she saw the trace semblance of _annoyance _in its unblinking eyes. The machine assessed the room with a deliberate turn of his head, then walked up the metal crate and glanced inside.

Jesse saw the holster on his hip carried a plasma pistol.

"I ordered that the cargo be undisturbed," Queeg said. He looked at Cullie as if for an explanation.

"Captain," the commander said. "We have a big problem. A . . . _machine _is loose on the ship. We're going to have to organize search parties and --"

"That will not be necessary." Queeg's deep baritone spoke with calm indifference.

Cullie blinked, then pointed at the corpse on the floor. "It _killed _Goodnow, sir. We can't just let it _roam free." _He paused. "It's a . . . a _shape-shifter_. It could compromise the crew."

Queeg's expression didn't change; he seemed unimpressed. "That is not your concern."

There was a short pause. Blake and Wells gave each other _what-the-fuck? _looks, and Jesse felt a nervous drip in her blood as the seed of a terrible notion planted itself in her brain. _Did Queeg . . . ?_

But Cullie was way ahead of her. "You knew what was in the crate, didn't you?" he asked, giving the captain a guarded look.

"Yes."

The commander nodded slowly. "And you have orders to take it to Serrano Point, right?"

The muscles of Queeg's face tightened by a fraction. "Yes."

When Cullie didn't ask anything else, the machine added. "Commander Boyle, secure all sidearms and plasma rifles. Take Sergeant Goodnow's body to the cool room. And return to duty."

"Yes, sir." Cullie said, his thick jaw clenched.

Satisfied at his XO's compliance, Queeg turned around and began to walk out of the room.

From the corner of her eye, Jesse saw Cullie pull something from his pants pocket. It looked like a black flashlight. She smiled in confused anticipation.

With a flick and twist of his wrist, the plastic rod telescoped out to thrice its length. At the end two metal fangs crackled with tiny arcs of miniature lightning.

The robot heard the sound and spun on his heel, drawing his bulky plasma pistol with machine speed and precision. But while the captain was fast, Cullie didn't hesitate. Lunging forward with a feline grace surprising for such a bear of a man, the commander thrust the shock-prod's tip out like a rapier, stabbing it square into Queeg's right temple.

The crackling fizz erupted like the buzz of an angry electric bee, and Queeg's eyes grew just noticeably wider, as if he were smoldering with impotent rage. He shook with an apoplectic tremble, then fell over, flat on his back.

His pistol had been leveled at the commander's chest. If Cullie had been a hair slower . . .

Without pausing, Cullie tossed the prod on the floor and knelt down by Queeg's head, drawing a folding knife from his pocket. In half a second the blade was out and slicing through the dark brown flesh around the captain's CPU port.

"What are you _doing?"_ Lieutenant Bird asked in a frenzied whisper. At the end of the room, Dietze gaped and began to pant like a dog. Hayes tittered nervously in the corner.

"Break its chip!" Jesse shrieked, cool nerves boiling to hot excitement. She'd always despised Queeg; he reminded her too much of her step-dad, what with all his icy stares and calculated indifference. And who's idea was it to make _metal_ a _captain, _anyway? Probably Cameron. Evil metal cunt. But now it was ding-dong-the-Robot's-dead time. Time to tap dance on his brains. Fun, fun, fun! But why bother pulling the chip? She bent over and picked up his plasma pistol. "Here, Cullie, let me . . . " She aimed at his head.

Cullie didn't bother to look up as he slapped the gun to the side, disregarding her as if she were a pestering child. "You have the bridge, Bird," he said as he peeled back the skin flap covering the port. "Hayes and Dietze, you go with Blake and Wells. Blake and Wells, I need you to round up the crew into the mess hall and put them under heavy guard. Then organize four teams of four to sweep the ship, deck by deck." With a sharp flick, he pried up the port cover with the tip of his knife. Air hissed, and he went on, "Prick everyone with a knife to see if they bleed. Tell them the password is 'swordfish.' If they forget it later on, _shoot them._" He dug a thick thumb and forefinger into the hole, and with a smart twist yanked the chip free. Jesse heard the dying hum as the 888 body powered down. "You stay with me, Flores. You've caused enough trouble as it is."

"Sir," said Bird with feigned calmness. "He may be a machine, but this _is_ mutiny. Connor could have us shot."

Cullie stood and held up Queeg's chip. "I take full responsibility. But if I'm _wrong_, I've just saved Serrano Point from a possible attack by a highly advanced infiltrator." He smiled, showing clean white teeth. "And if I'm _right, _I've _also_ uncovered a conspiracy against the Resistance."

* * *

**December 17, 2007**

**Hillside Auto Salvage**

Through the passenger's side window, in the late evening twilight, John could see the Hillside Scrapyard looked much as it had a month before: a large, fenced-in, mud-strewn plot of land, littered with the gutted corpses of a thousand automobiles. Most sat lined up in rows, as if parked by absent-minded owners and left abandoned to their rusted fate. Others laid flattened like crumpled steel pancakes, piled one on top the other, forming a sheet-metal rat maze. A great steel crane and a behemoth crusher loomed out in the distance, silhouetted against the setting sun, like two skeletal beasts from a prehistoric era.

John imagined this sort of landscape to be a fairly common sight in the Post-Judgment Day world.

Kyle turned the SUV off the dirt road and pulled up to the barb-wired, chain-linked gate, which led to the junkyard proper. On the gate hung a white metal sign that read in stark black lettering: **Private Property - No Trespassing**. John felt pretty certain that that hadn't been there before. Just beyond the gate stood an old two-story farmhouse, probably used as an office by whoever owned the business. Attached to the house's side sat a single-car garage. Kyle switched off the engine and turned his head back, looking at Cameron expectantly. She gave a curt nod, and she and Kyle stepped out, each carrying a bag; a confused John followed.

The obvious question, the one that'd been gnawing on his brain ever since he first learned of their destination, had so far been left unasked. There could only be one real answer, but just thinking about it fueled an awkward warmth in his chest. Choosing this place couldn't be just a _whim_ of hers, could it? Cameron may be sporadic -- _sometimes -- _but . . ._ why?_

Cameron walked up to the gate and pulled out a ring of keys (_What the . . . ?_) from the front pocket of her jeans. She unlatched the padlock, and, with a light shove and a metallic hiss, the chain-linked door swung open. She went on through, walking across the patchy, unkempt grass. John and Kyle followed behind her.

_Keys?_

He quickened his pace to match hers, and they walked around the house to the front porch. "Why . . . What's with the keys?" he asked.

She stepped up to the front door, jingling another key into her hand. "I purchased this property," she said, as if it were perfectly obvious.

John blinked, but didn't bother asking where she found the money. "But . . . why _this _place?"

Cameron hesitated and frowned in what could either have been annoyance or embarrassment. "I keep things here," she said. "And this is an isolated location. Low traffic." She unlocked the door and forced it opened with a rough wooden scrape.

"But --"

"You know why," she added in an almost gentle voice, and stepped on in.

He did know. But Cam? Sentimental? Was this place . . . _sacred ground _to her? The idea made John's mouth twitch into an odd grin; his throat tightened, and he felt oddly touched. So there _had _been a sense of gratitude lurking behind her blank, judging eyes. She could have avoided a whole month of ill-will if instead of saying, _"You can't be trusted anymore,"_ she had said instead, _"Thank you, but be more careful next time."_ Oh well.

Before he followed her in, he stole a glance out onto the junkyard. Somewhere out there rested Cameron's would-be coffin . . .

Kyle moved up behind him, and his mouth twisted into an unreadable, thin grin. John sighed and went on inside.

Cameron stepped over to a plaster-cracked wall and flicked a switch, flooding the entryway with the dull yellow glow of a single 40 watt bulb. The air had a stale, dirty murk to it that made John think of dead mildew, and all of the cheap particleboard furniture laid coated in a fine sheet of dust. Cobwebs hung from the shadowy corners. Cam obviously didn't put much stock in cleanliness for her secret safe-house.

"Nice place," John said with a sniff.

She only gave him blank look, her eyes distracted and tight with worry. The feeling was contagious, and John felt his small hairs raise up on his arms and back. His eyes darted around nervously, looking for who-knew-what.

Examining the place with a quick scan on her head, Cameron stepped into a short hallway and grabbed onto a roughly hewed, unvarnished cupboard. With a casual sideways shove, she slid the furniture to the side, revealing a beat-up old door behind; a round hole stared out where the doorknob should have been. Tapping it with her boot, the door swung open with a hinged squeal. She briefly glanced at the two of them before stepping into the hidden passageway. John heard her feet go down a series of wooden steps. Thump. Thump. Thump. A plank creaked under her weight.

John gave Kyle a look. Cam's Basement of Mystery? They followed down the steps, and he could feel the boards sink slightly with each footfall. The dark stairway corridor swam with a billion swirling mites of barely-seen dust. His sinuses tingled, and he withheld a sneeze.

At the base of the stairs stood another door. In a darkness nearing pitch, John watched as Cameron slid aside a wood panel next to the doorjamb and withdrew a thermos-size bundle of what looked like a half-dozen bricks of clay, all taped together. Wires, like long, black spaghetti, jutted out from the center of the bundle in a tangled weave, worming their way back into the wall. Cameron gingerly pulled them loose with methodical ease.

John's sudden cold, nervous sweat mingled with a caressive coat of dust. "What's that?" he asked, as if he didn't know.

"C4," she said, then opened the door and walked on in. C4. Enough to turn the house into a crater, from the looks of it.

In the black rectangle of the opened door, John heard Cameron jerk a pull string. Click-click. Stabbing light shot out from a dangling bulb, just inside the doorway. John squinted against the glare and went on in, Kyle right behind him.

The basement wasn't as big as he had expected, more like a tiny little cellar. He gave it another look: maybe not so small after all. Just cluttered. A whole downtown block of piled cardboard box skyscrapers covered half of the room; the rest laid taken up by a sturdy workbench and a giant stainless steel . . . _freezer? _The appliance hummed with electricity.

From the corner of his eye, John noticed a Tommy-gun _(?)_ resting on top of a small dresser at the end of the room.

John glanced over at Kyle, who mirrored his own confusion with a small frown. The light bulb behind them gently swung back and forth like a pendulum, shifting their shadows across the wood paneled floor and walls.

Cameron placed her backpack and the C4 on the table (John saw her first pull out the detonator switch) and knelt down, dragging out a wooden chest from underneath. John looked away and stepped up to the freezer. Fairly new, from the looks of it. What would a robot keep in a refrigerator? His hand moved towards the door, but he stopped himself. "Any more booby traps?" he asked.

"No," she said in monotone. _Something _was eating her. Well, she _was_ about to have her brain ripped out. No fun, that.

He pulled open the fridge. Cold frosty mist billowed out . . .

Oh_-Kay . . ._

The dead man -- He spied a gleam of metal through a peeled back scalp: an empty CPU port -- No, the dead _machine_ stood half-slumped in the freezer, its empty eyes staring down through him with frost-covered blankness. He -- it_ -- whatever_ -- towered over six feet tall and had a head of dark brown hair, slightly receding and covered in icicles. Its waist bent unnaturally at the hips, suggesting a broken spine.

It wore a tattered pinstripe suit.

"Cam, what's this?" John asked, his voice calm. The frigid air felt crisp on his face, and he realized he was smiling; he didn't have the slightest clue why. Behind him, he heard Kyle breath a happy laugh.

"It's a Triple-Eight," Cameron said without looking up. Digging like a dog, her hands searched through the wooden chest with the sounds of jangling metal.

John's smile broke into a chuckle. "Thank you for explaining, Miss Obvious, but why is -- ?"

"It's Uncle Stark!" Kyle interrupted, stepping up next to John. His voice brimmed with all the excited nostalgia of a man coming across a favorite childhood toy.

"What?" John said. He looked at Cameron, then Kyle, then back at the machine. _Uncle . . . ?_

"He was one of Cameron's top Generals," Kyle said, beaming. Then, to Cameron: "Where's his chip?"

From the chest Cameron pulled a fancy glass jar with an air gauge and a rubber hose. John saw the little sliver of plastic suspended in the center of the jar by a skinny metal stand. "I captured it," she said, looking at John. "We can reprogram it later."

Captured? What? When? And _General . . . Stark?_ For an unthinking moment he almost blurted the question, _"You made one of them_ _a_ General?_" _but he caught his tongue before the idiocy slipped. That'd probably be construed as insulting, considering who had _ruled _the Foundation -- and who he had been _making out_ with less than an hour ago_._

But still . . . he tried to picture Uncle Bob leading an army. Hmm.

Fuck it. He decided he'd worry about it later, and closed the freezer door.

* * *

". . . Where's his chip?" Kyle asked from behind.

She pulled out the glass vacuum chamber from the chest and held it up for them to see. It contained Myron Stark's CPU chip. An useful asset. She glanced over at John. "I captured it. We can reprogram it later."

John nodded vaguely, then closed the freezer door. Cameron went back to her counting.

. . . four hyperalloy neck vertebrae, two optic sensors, two clavicle supports . . .

While inventorying her supply of 888 parts, Cameron ran an analysis of her internal sensory data. Unsatisfaction. She felt concern. Worry. Removing her chip had always been a cause for apprehension, but this time was different. John was at greater risk.

. . . three cranial skull-bolts, ten digitorum tendon rods, two waist support rods . . .

When John removed her chip in order to disable the ARTIE traffic control system, her primary concern had been her destruction at the hands of either Sarah or Derek. If that had happened, she would no longer exist, and therefore would not be able to protect John. And John would experience guilt at having failed to prevent her death. But Sarah and Derek would have continued to watch over him. He would have been reasonably safe.

. . . eight sheets of hyperalloy spinal plating, an iridium power cell, two audio sensors (she picked up one and placed it on the table -- an adequate replacement) . . .

The incident during John's birthday (An irritated sensation . . . Sad?) contained similar concerns. If she had been burned that day, John would still have remained protected by his mother and uncle.

John was all that mattered.

. . . two collateral knee joints, two Achilles support rods, two thigh pistons . . .

But this time will be different. John's safety relied _exclusively_ on her continued existence. Derek had proved himself a traitor, and Sarah showed signs of mental instability; they were dangerous and unreliable. And as for Kyle . . .

Cameron completed her inventory count. Two hundred and six pieces. All accounted for.

John stood over her and looked down into the chest. "Shit!" he said. "Are those from triple eights?"

"_A_ triple eight," she corrected. "The one sent for Dr. Sherman."

"I thought you burned her," John said.

"I did. After I removed its useful parts." She shut the chest and slid it back under the table.

John breathed out a slight laugh. "Mom would freak if she knew you were stashing Skynet tech."

Sarah freaks easily. And often. "Which is why I keep them here," she said. John didn't say anything to that, so she stood up and pulled out her knife, handing it to him. "Let's get started," she said. The sooner it was done, the sooner the worried sensation would cease.

Kyle stood in the corner, examining Myron Stark's Thompson M1921. He looked at the knife in John's hand and frowned. Jealousy is a dangerous emotion.

"All right," John said, nodding his head, but Cameron ignored him and glared at Kyle. Lowering her voice to a frequency John couldn't hear, she spoke to Kyle without moving her lips.

_"While I am deactivated, You will not harm John," _she commanded. _"Do you understand me?"_

Kyle's expression turned slack, and he swallowed, then nodded. His eyes projected fear mixed with subdued anger.

_"The metal working tools are in the garage," _she added, then turned away.

While John's bewildered expression suggested he knew a secret communication had taken place, he said nothing. She pulled the plastic encased patch from her jeans pocket and handed it to him. "Kyle will show you how to install this," she said. "The room just upstairs on the right has internet access."

Climbing up on the wooden table, Cameron laid down and pulled off her wool beanie. John placed the patch on the table and leaned over her, flicking out the blade of the knife.

Kyle stood behind him, frowning.

Cameron frowned back.

The verbal commands she had given him should reinforce his neural programming, but this still did not satisfy her concerns. His attempt at seduction last night, combined with his social hostility towards John, suggested a psychological instability. Perhaps her future self's neural programming techniques were flawed.

She would have to think on this further. At a later time.

Cameron watched John's eyes narrow in concentration as h moved the knife to her CPU port. With a gentle scraping motion, he peeled back the partially regrown flesh, exposing the metal cap beneath. A stray memory emerged. Between the trucks. _". . . I'm fixed now. I ran a test . . ."_

She repressed it.

John chewed on his lip for a moment before digging the blade under the port cover and prying it up. Cameron heard the pneumatic hiss as air flooded her CPU chamber.

Kyle's frown turned into a scowl, and he walked out into her peripheral vision.

"Okay . . ." John said, and placed the knife and the port cover on the table by Cameron's head. Taking out a pair of needle-nose pliers from a nearby tool tray, he began to move the implement carefully towards the exposed shock dampener of her chip. After a moment, she heard the slight scrape of metal as the beak of the pliers grabbed a hold of the insulated end.

_". . . I love you, John, and you love me . . . " _On its own, her combat alert status initiated itself, sending auxiliary power to her servos. Cameron felt her jaw tighten and her left hand twitch.

John paused. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, forcing the alert to deactivate

He gave her a kind smiled. "Everything's going to be be okay," he said in a soothing voice. "I promise." She felt his hand run through her hair.

Physical affection. Value. Love. She smiled back.

At the end of the room, she heard Kyle's breathing level increase, shifting into a near-growl.

John's eyes glanced over at him for a moment, but then looked back into hers. "Ready?" he whispered, continuing to stroke the left side of her head.

She nodded.

His hand twisted the chip counter-clockwise, and he pulled.

All bodily sensations ceased, and her vision turned black; she felt her mental processes slow to a halt.

John promised everything will be okay.

She hoped he was right.

* * *

Still feeling the barbs from Cameron's snubbing, Kyle watched as John slid the chip out from the hole in her skull. Cameron's eyes turned to glass, and the life drained from her face until it had all the spark of a wax dummy.

John stared down at the chip at the end of his pliers, his mouth hanging open with appreciative awe.

Despite everything, Kyle found himself nodding with vicarious approval. After all, John held in his hands the sleeping soul of a machine god. All her superior intellect, all her indomitable will, all the terrible programmed instincts that lay chiseled into her heart, all her potential --_ her essence_ . . . all decanted into that flimsy sliver of plastic and carbon nanotubing, a one ounce universe. Like a _djinn _trapped in a tiny microchip lamp.

Who could deny the sense of divine reverence?

Kyle frowned. Perhaps John _did_ love her. And perhaps he . . . _understood?_

Perhaps.

Kyle stepped across the room and picked up the knife by her head. "You love her, don't you?" he asked.

John stared at the chip a moment before answering. "Yes. I do." His voice rang with all the fevered resolve of a hormone-flooded adolescent.

Kyle nodded and made a swift cut along the jawline of Cameron's face, running the blade up to each ear. He glanced at the audio sensor on the table. He'd done this a dozen times before, repairing her, replacing her parts. His hands knew all the work almost by rote. John cringed slightly at the wet sucking sound of sliced flesh.

"And _she_ loves _you_," Kyle replied casually. "But you know her love is . . . _different,_ right?"

His pseudo-son took her chip from the pliers' teeth and held it his hand, gripping it by the insulated end. "I know what she is," he said.

"And yet you disapprove of the Foundation."

John frowned. "Because it's wrong."

"Is a lion wrong when is kills a zebra? Is a praying mantis wrong when it eats its mate?"

John sniffed. "That's stupid. Cameron isn't an animal."

"She isn't a human either." Kyle set the knife aside and slid his fingers deep into the red jelly of the slice he'd made. Feeling the smooth curve of her coltan jaw, he gave a sharp yank, and with a wet, slimy squish, he peeled back the flesh of her face, exposing her true self beneath. First slid up the skin of her chin, then her lips lifted away from her teeth. Next came her cheeks and nose, and finally then the gelatinous domes of her brown glassy eyes. They popped up with a light suctional squelch -- first one, then the other -- revealing the unlit red optic sensors beneath. Kyle then peeled back the rest of the skin, pulling it back from the scalp.

John took a step back and breath in a short gasp.

"And because she isn't human," Kyle went on. "She shouldn't be held accountable to our morality, to our primitive little superstitions, our self-limiting rules. She's _outside _us."

John gaped at Cameron's metal face for a moment before responding. "Bullshit," he said with a near-cracking voice. "It doesn't matter who you are. Right is right, and wrong is wrong. And I can _teach_ her that."

But Kyle could see the creep of doubt in his son's eyes, and he smiled. "You can teach a chicken to play tic-tac-toe, but it won't _understand _it. She can't _get _empathy. Not like we do."

Hesitantly, John stepped back up the table and stared down at Cameron's grinning skull. Clumps of gooey tissue, like little red slugs, clung to the contours of the hyperalloy. Her peeled face laid bunched up near the back of her head, like a pulled back hood; her hair and eyes and cheeks and lips and nose all compressed into a folding wad. Like a brown haired fleshy tumor. Squished.

John ran a finger along her metal temple, feeling the jagged edges where the .50 bullet had struck. "I don't . . . " he began, but then trailed off.

Memories dredged up from the depths of Kyle's mind; they bobbed to the surface of his thoughts and hung suspended as if encased in formaldehyde. "I watched her run experiments, John," he said quietly. "I was a little younger than yourself, maybe fourteen or so. I knew she was doing it. The brain surgeries. I asked if I could _watch._"

John said nothing, but looked down at the chip in his hands.

"She was reluctant, at first," Kyle said. "But I insisted, and . . . " He trailed off and looked away as he recalled his first sight of a living human brain; it had looked like a wet, round bundle of thick, pink, blood-soaked worms. An organic chip. "I was horrified at first," he continued. "The man was awake and screaming, but Cameron gagged him once she saw how he was disturbing me. She actually _scowled_ at him, as if he were being _rude._" Kyle surprised himself with his own chuckle and looked back at John, who only stared at him with uncomfortable silence.

"That was weird thing about her," Kyle went on. "She loved me _completely, _and she felt _fondness_ for a few others, but most people . . . " He shrugged and shook his head. "Just meat and bones to her_._ She wasn't even _sadistic _about it_. _They just didn't _matter_. Like meat puppets_ -- chickens._" He pointed at the chip in John's hand. "That's what she is, John. _Alien. Godlike. _She's _beyond_ us. _Beyond _right and wrong. _Beyond _good and evil. Just as we're beyond our great ape ancestors."

"I'm sorry," John said.

"What?" Kyle felt his cheeks grow warm.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, shaking his head. "I'm sorry about what she did to you. What she made you do. She twisted you, and it's my fault." His face had fallen alarmingly flat, but his eyes betrayed sadness.

"Sorry?" Kyle felt a strange ache in his chest. Warm. Hot. Then, cooling anger. "There's nothing to be sorry about, John." He gestured at the chip again. "She's better than us. A _post-_human_. _She's our _future, _and one day, her kind will either rule us or replace us. It's _evolution,_ and it's_ beautiful._" A sudden giddiness climbed up his throat. It was awe. "Our time has passed, John. There's no avoiding it."

John scowled. "That's not going to happen. Not this time."

From outside came a rising cascade of light thumps, like thousands of tiny pebbles falling on wet sand. Rain.

Kyle eyed the fingernail-sized patch that laid on the tabletop. "We'll see," he said.

* * *

Rain beat against the cars in a hollow symphony of thumps.

Hunched over in a curled crouch, Sarah worked her way step by step through the junkyard, her combat boots squelching into the wet gushy mud, each step threatening to suck her soles into a soggy grave. Fat drops of cold rain pelted her hair flat against her scalp, and her jacket clung to her skin, chafing her.

Slinging her rifle over her back (the hundred round drum pressed against her small ribs), she knelt down behind the bed of an old Chevy truck and peeked over the rusted rim. The farmhouse lay to the north, about thirty yards away. No one in the windows that she could see, though she recognized their SUV. She checked the GPS again.

John. In the house. On the west end.

She took a deep breath and felt an unwelcome tremble sweep over her, flowing through her limbs and burning an ache into her wounded leg. The sensation shamed her, sapping her resolve into wishy-washy introspection, and she felt an idle thought sneak into her brain, oozing like a judging slug. For a desolate moment, Sarah found herself wondering what it must have been like for Cameron when she went bad.

Assuming _something _looked out from those machine eyes of hers, did any vestige of Cameron's former self remain during her rampage, watching and wailing against her murderous intents? Did she valiantly fight a losing battle against her base programming? Did she, in some vague, robotic fashion, feel guilt for her betrayal?

_Will I?_

Still hunkered over, she half crawled to the next nearby car, a chipped red, seventies-era Cadillac behemoth. Though she couldn't see the west side of the house, the muddy ground around it seemed to glow slightly, contrasting with the dreary darkness that permeated everything else. There must be a light in a window . . .

She still wasn't quite sure how she was going to do this. Probably -- _hopefully --_ they'd taken out Cameron's chip by now, and she imagined fixing that skull of hers would take some time. So that left just Kyle. A wild card. Just _how _machine was he? Surely not like a 888. He still had a plain meaty old brain in that head of his, or at least most of one. Even if his skull were made of hyperalloy, the impacts of 7.62x39mm rounds to his head should at least knock him senseless.

She left the cover of the Cadillac and made her way towards the house's garage on the east side, quickly covering the few yards in a handful of seconds. She leaned back against the garage's cold aluminum door and looked up at the gray and black overcast sky, squinting against a barrage of incoming drops.

And what about _after_ she takes down Kyle? Then it'll be the hard part. She remembered how John had cupped his hands over Uncle Bob's chip, protecting it from her sledgehammer. He cried for days after the steel mill; this would be a thousand times worse.

But she'd do it. She'd stomp it to splinters under her muddy boot -- right before his pleading eyes. It'd be a part of his training. A life lesson. John would cry, but his tears would make him strong. They'd be cool oil on a red hot blade, hardening him, tempering his soul into the tragic weapon he must become.

_It's for your own good, John . . . _

Across the sky to the west shot a bolt of lightning; thunder followed a second later.

* * *

Heavy drops of rain splashed against her hard Kevlar helmet, sending cold water to worm its way down the back of her neck. She shivered.

Laying on her belly in the long, muddy grass, Jesse scanned the farmhouse through her night-vision binoculars. The building sat a hundred yards east down a gentle incline, over a barbed-wire fence, and across an obstacle course of rust-pitted vehicles. She focused on a lighted window on the first story; through a monochrome palate of light-enhanced green and black, she could just barely make out through the drawn-back curtains the shape of someone's head. Sitting at a desk? A drop of rain plopped against one of the lenses, and Jesse scowled; she needed to get a better view.

Sliding the binoculars back into the pouch on her belt, she pushed herself up and pulled out a grappling hook rope from her pack sitting by her side. Tossing the four-hook anchor into the branches of a nearby tree, she tugged until she heard the hearty crunch of sharpened steel sinking into wet bark. M16 slung across her back, she hauled herself up the ten feet or so to the overhanging branch, her hands grasping the soggy knots of the rope, and her boots scrabbling at them below, using them as tiny steps. It wasn't easy; her body armor felt like a suit of lead in the rain, and her arms burned with the effort.

Reaching it, she grabbed on to the branch in an embrace and swung herself over, straddling the wood with her knees. She scooted herself back until she leaned against the trunk, then pulled out her binoculars again. Rain trickled through the leaves, dribbling on her here and there. Cold.

She fingered the knob on the binoculars, re-focusing on the lighted window. Through the rain-streaked distance, she saw in the room the back of a young man, sitting in an office chair at a desk in front of a computer. She bared her teeth and grinned, and behind her flashed a bright light, followed a second later by a roaring boom of thunder. The young man looked out the window for a moment: John. Or . . . Kyle? She glanced at her GPS tracker: no. Unless Kyle was wearing his coat, it was definitely John. Slowly, she un-slung her M16 from her back and stared him down through the scope, switching on its light enhanced vision with her thumb.

A head shot would be easy. _"I could end this now . . . "_ she thought as she lightly touched her finger to the trigger. Pop him like a melon. Break the cycle of Connors, once and for all. It wouldn't hurt the Resistance a bit; she was sure of that. In this temporal iteration, John was reduced only to a cheap figurine of his past selves, a flimsy hood ornament of a long lost god.

Watching with a squinted eye she saw him typing, then scrolling about with the mouse. In the blurred green light, Jesse could see something sitting next to the computer: a small plastic device, little smaller than a box of tissues. Was that hardware from Kendo's? Had he already plugged in her chip? Was he fixing her? Watching her memories? Chatting with her through text messages?

Aww.

Jesse was going to enjoy this.

But it had to be done _right. _You don't guzzle pre-war booze, you _savor it_. Shatter his plastic love before his very eyes. Make him feel the stabbing hollow of _loss_. Steal away all Cameron's future might with just single sharp piece of flying lead.

Make him cry, _then _kill him.

Her binoculars offered better magnification, so she lowered her gun and switched back to them again, eagerly scanning the distant window for a sign of the chip. There. She was sure of it. Just a squat dark line in a sea of green and black, but it jutted out, plugged in vertically from the little plastic computer box, like a tiny middle finger.

Ignoring the dull cramp in her thighs, she lifted the assault rifle back to her shoulder and made a bead on the target, but John shifted in his seat, blocking her line of sight to the chip. Great. Through rain-soaked goosebumps, she felt her skin prickle with a dizzying, impulsive heat. _"Move, damn it!" _she willed at John as her teeth chattered, and she sighed with an expectant laugh. So close now. Would she get to see his tears again? No, not in detail, anyway. Curse this shitty night vision.

John stood up for a moment and reached around to the back of the computer, as if he were hooking something up to the PC -- he still blocked the chip with the small of his back. Her fingers tightened on the rifle's pistol grip, and her left hand squeezed the underside of the M203 grenade launcher attached beneath the barrel. She bit her lip in frustration, and a raindrop dripped from her helmet to her nose.

_Out of the way . . . out of the way . . . out of the way . . ._

John sat back down and . . . _waved? . . . _at the computer screen. He still blocked her aim with his shoulder. Shit.

Jesse sighed and lowered her rifle again. Looking down at her watch, she pressed the button on the side for light: 7:47pm. She'd give him another three minutes, and if Cameron's chip wasn't exposed by then, then she'd just have to settle for just killing him.

That'd be a shame, but sometimes life was just full of disappointments.

* * *

**July 19, 2027**

**USS **_**Jimmy Carter, **_**Pacific Ocean**

**0625 Hours**

The light above flickered, and from somewhere deep within the ship, Jesse heard the the rusted groan of stressed steel, followed a moment later by a series of far off metallic taps, not unlike cold water dripping on hollow tin. Probably just the hull settling -- the sub _was _pretty deep . . . Or just maybe it was the liquid creature, oozing its way through the ship's labyrinthine ventilation shafts. She, Cullie, and Ensign Gavin looked nervously about the cabin. But there were no air vents to fear, and outside the locked door stood two armed marines.

"Here," Gavin said. "I found it." He pressed a few keys on the computer, and on the screen a video began:

_The camera frame -- Queeg's eyes -- centers on the face of a pretty teenage girl with long, slightly curled brown hair. Jesse sees the "birth" mark on the corner of her left eyebrow, and knows it must be Cameron. The skin around her mouth is drawn into a vague frown, and her eyes are narrowed in what seems like pompous contempt ("Connor's spoiled whore," Jesse thinks). Cameron wears a deep purple Mao suit, sharply pressed and buttoned to the top: the much feared uniform of Internal Security. In the background stands a blank concrete wall with a plain spartan bed and dresser sitting against it._

_Cameron's cute girl voice speaks with accustomed authority. "Your mission is to travel to the Osprey Oil Platform. Once there, you will receive seven T-nine-hundreds and a crate containing a frozen mimetic polyalloy unit. (_"A mimi-_what?_" _Jesse asks. Cullie shushes her.) You will then deliver this cargo to Serrano Point. Do you understand your mission?"_

_"I understand," Queeg's voice responds._

_She cocks her head slightly, and her frown deepens. "This mission takes highest priority. Take whatever measures are required. The crew are expendable . . ."_

Gavin paused the screen. "So, you think this is a conspiracy?" he asked, his runny eyes darting between her and Cullie.

Cullie leaned on the back of the office chair and stared at the screen over the ensign's shoulder, scowling. "What else?" the commander said. "Even if that 'mimetic polyalloy' creature was one of ours, Connor wouldn't let it go near Serrano." He blew out a breath. "And even if he _did_, the High Command would never stand for it. The risk is too great. We lose Serrano, we lose the war."

The three of them were in Queeg's dimly lit "quarters," huddled around the glow of the monitor. The cabin was only a little side-room in the back of the sick bay, holding the captain's stash of spare parts. Jesse idly pulled out a drawer from a cabinet and counted a dozen hyperalloy widgets of various shapes and sizes, all obsessive-compulsively organized into lines and rows. Underneath the cabinet sat a touch-pad safe.

More metal taps, still distant, but louder, like a dozen hammers pounding on steel sheets, way off on the other side of the ship. What was the _thing_ doing?

The ensign pursed his lips and scratched at one of the zits on his cheek."But this doesn't make sense. Why would Cameron wait until _now _to betray the Resistance? She could have killed Connor years ago. Could have lost the war for us a dozen times by now."

"I don't know," Cullie said. "Maybe her old programming resurfaced. Or maybe she just changed her mind."

"Funny," Gavin said. "She always seemed loyal as a dog to him."

Jesse sniffed and reached over, tapping a finger on Queeg's chip, which stuck straight up out of the CPU-reader like an old video game cartridge. "These things can't _be _loyal," she said. "Bits of plastic can't be _anything."_

Cullie gently guided her hand away from the reader. "It doesn't matter why," he said. "We show this to Perry, Cameron will be scrap whether Connor wants it or not."

Gavin stared evenly at Cameron's frozen face on the screen. "You think he . . . sleeps with her?"

Cullie frowned. "If the Sarah Diaries are any indication, probably."

"That's disgusting," said Gavin.

Jesse smirked and glared down at him. _Liar._ Ensign Pizza-Face had probably never even _touched_ a woman, Jesse could easily see him pounding away at a tight piece of fake flesh like Cameron. But Connor fucking a machine? She had kind of always known, but . . . since he was _fifteen?_ She wondered if he had "remained true," to her -- _it._ Would that mean he was still technically a virgin?

"How did Connor end up leading us, anyway?" she asked.

Cullie nodded at the screen. "I think Cameron here had someth--"

The intercom on the wall crackled into life.

_*"Sir -- I mean Captain -- This is Wells, of Team Charlie, checking in."* _A pause. _*"Swordfish."*_

Cullie nodded. "What do you have to report?"

_*"Nothing much, Captain. We've run a sweep of the stern half of deck one. No signs of the . . . creature, though we keep hearing these tapping sounds from somewhere. It may still be in the ventilation system. Moving on to the bow, now."*_

"Thank you, sergeant. Keep me posted. Carry on."

The intercom clicked off.

Gavin's mouth twisted into a tight lipped frown. "If this thing can take any shape, what's stopping it from just . . . _melting_ into the floor? Our men could be walking right over it and not even know it."

The commander sighed. "I know." He paused just long enough for Jesse to feel uncomfortable. "Let's take a look at the nine-hundreds' chips," he said. "Maybe they'll tell us something useful."

"They're probably in there," Jesse said, pointing down at the safe. She pulled out Queeg's plasma pistol from the back of her pants. "Shall I . . . ?"

"No," Cullie said. "Queeg may have boobie-trapped it. Shooting off the lock may set off a bomb." He turned to Gavin. "Can you . . . ?"

"Way ahead of you, Captain," the ensign said, typing furiously.

It took less than a minute; Gavin may be a greasy troll, but he knew how to read his chips. After a moment, a new video played on the screen:

_Queeg's eyes pan down to the safe. In one hand he holds the metal box; the other reaches out and pushes a series of buttons on the safe's keypad, each making a light beep: 1 - 9 - 6 - 3. The hand pulls the level on the door, and the safe pops open._

"All right," Cullie said, smiling. He typed in the code into the safe, and it worked. The safe contained only the metal case and an extra plasma pistol; Queeg obviously wasn't much for hording material possessions, though Jesse's eyes did narrow greedily on the handgun. A Westinghouse P24, smooth, black and bulky. So few of them made they were practically luxury items. And two of them? One to keep, one to sell. Nice.

Cullie took out the metal case and looked it over. It was about the size of a sturdy hardback book. He flipped it open with his thumb.

No chips.

Just some data discs, five of them, like shiny silver dollars. They laid in a pentagon pattern in the case, resting on a black sheet of foam padding. Cullie's brow furrowed.

Jesse didn't like this. "Those aren't chips. Where are the chips?"

The ensign's mouth twisted into a lip gnawing frown. "Maybe the . . . 'gifts' didn't come with them?" He raised an eyebrow. "Chips not included?"

"Maybe," Cullie said evenly.

Gavin held up his hands defensively. "Hey, I checked their ports. They were empty. I swear."

"I know," the commander said, obviously not convinced. He twisted a dial on the intercom, tuning it to a channel. "Team Beta? This is the captain. Do you copy? Swordfish."

After a moment: _*"Blake here, sir. We've searched the bow half of deck three. No sign of the . . . thing. Swordfish."*_

"Good," the commander said. "I want you to go back to the starboard storage compartment. I need you to _destroy _those nine-hundreds."

A pause. _*"Sir?"*_

"Just shoot them in the head a few times. They're tough, but that should do it."

_*"Yes sir! Over and out."*_

"Isn't that a bit of a waste, captain?" Gavin asked. "Really, they're totally chip-less, and the Resistance _can _use them."

Cullie frowned and nodded; he looked worried. "I know. Call me paranoid, but I don't want to take any chances."

The tapping noise returned, like _scuttling_, this time. It seemed to float in the air, emanating from nowhere.

Cullie cocked his head, listening. "Let's see what's on the discs," he decided.

Gavin slipped one into the computer, and it loaded almost immediately. On the screen a window popped up, and white symbols Jesse didn't recognize scrolled across a black backdrop. The ensign frowned.

"What is it?" Jesse asked.

"I don't know," he said. "It's encrypted. The code's _old. _Pre-war, I'd say."

"Can you crack it?" Cullie asked.

Gavin nodded. "It'll take a couple hours, at least."

The commander sighed, and the scrolling text stopped. Along the bottom of the window, embedded in the center of a big block of what looked like Japanese characters, read a single phrase in English lettering, all caps: **THE KALIBA GROUP.**

Jesse narrowed her eyes. "What the fuck is 'the Kali--'"

The intercom interrupted. Blake's tinny voice rang through the speaker. _*"They're gone! All of them are gone!"*_

"What are you talking about, sergeant?" the commander demanded, though by his ashen face, Jesse could tell he already knew.

_*"The nine-hundreds, sir. The coffins. They're _empty!_"*_

Her heart danced in its bone cage, and an excited, absurd snicker slipped from her lips. She put her hand over her mouth. Don't giggle, stupid!

Cullie spared her a split second glare, then pushed a button on the intercom. "Pull back to the mess hall!" he cried out. "I repeat, pull back!"

Gavin only managed to look indignant. "No way!" he said. "They don't have chips. They can't be alive!" He turned around in his chair and threw up his hands. "It's _impossible,_" he declared, complaining to reality.

Another voice popped up over the intercom. Wells. _*"--der heavy fire. Metal. Loose on deck one. I re--"* _The high pitched squeals of rapid plasma fire ripped over the speaker, cutting Wells off in a scream. And then they heard the tapping again, like heavy stomps, but with a faster tempo this time. It came not only from the speaker, but from beyond the walls. From the decks above and below.

And Jesse knew what it was.

Feet.

Metal feet.

Seven pairs of metal feet. Running.

* * *

**December 17, 2007**

**Hillside Auto Salvage**

Outside, the rain fell in a rapid tumble of taps and plops.

John took a sip of his Dr. Pepper. The mini-fridge in the corner had only kept it cool in only a vague, right-above-lukewarm sense, but he needed the caffeine, and warm soft drinks never bothered him that much, anyway. Another sip.

Sitting in a worn leather chair at a computer in what could loosely be called an office, he idly clicked through the image files from the flash drive. One photo looked like it had been taken at an award ceremony, with lots of young people in dark green, oddly retro-style military uniforms, all milling around in what seemed to be a great Neo-Victorian auditorium. Another image showed a bikini-clad Cameron lying on a beach, smiling, her arms wrapped around the bare waist of a too-young Kyle. John made a face. Creepy.

While no doubt Future Cam had bowdlerized the content of its more unpleasant, _Mengele-esque_ aspects, he had to admit her Foundation looked . . . successful. Or at least affluent; John somehow doubted his future self enjoyed many cocktail parties or sunny afternoons on the beach.

He clicked to another image: a city skyline, as if from a travel brochure. In the center of the picture stood three great towers that looked like kilometer-high stiletto knives, forged from crystal. They loomed above the lesser structures surrounding them, like a trinity of skyscraper gods. In the background floated a number of small flying vehicles, along with three giant . . . airships? Spaceships? John thought of _Star Wars._

It looked beautiful.

And somewhere in the picture, behind the shiny walls of glass and steel, millions of innocent people were getting their brains scooped out.

Had that been Cameron trying to do _good?_

He pulled out the "patch" from his pocket and placed it on the desk. Could he _trust _that . . . ?

Outside, lightning flashed. One Mississippi, two Miss -- Boom.

John indulged the weather with a casual glance out the window, then turned back to the desk, frowning at Cameron's chip. It sat plugged into Kendo's adapter, which in turn was hooked into both the computer and the cable router. Right now she was securing for them money and new identities, hacking bank records and government databases with an inherent ease that John could only envy.

He gently stroked a finger against the insulated end of her chip and thought of the endo-skull that he'd seen earlier. He always knew what she was, of course (how could he forget?), but _seeing_ her like that, her fleshy semblance stripped away, leaving behind only the core metal of her manufactured deception . . . It served as a grim reminded that she belonged to a "species" of predator, one that used mimicry to hunt its prey.

Cameron may be different from the others, but . . .

John finished off his soda and shook his head, then tossed the can on the ground. Kyle may be a lunatic, but he was _right. _When John killed himself -- the _other _John -- he let Cam loose upon the world, like a rottweiler in a hen house. John was no anthropologist, but if empathy manifested itself as something _instinctual, _as something that _evolved_ through man's hominid ancestors a million years before the discovery of fire . . . then Cameron could never be part of that condition. And it wouldn't be fair to her to pretend otherwise.

And what about his hopes of a suburbia paradise? He shifted in his seat and felt ice clench in his belly. Cam? A housewife? The idea seemed now patently artificial. Fake. Make-believe. Like forcing his killer-robot teddy bear to sit down for tea and cookies. Playing "house." And adopted children? Something she'd probably just tolerate. John's pet chickens.

_"And yet I still love her," _John realized, suddenly feeling angry and trapped, caged by his own emotions. But then it really wasn't her fault; she was what she was,and she _did _love him back -- he knew that. Though as Kyle said, her love was . . . _different._

But loving her as a _girlfriend . . . _was that wrong? He frowned. Who could say? The idea seemed . . .

**Cameron: John?**

He suddenly realized he'd been staring at her chip for so long that his vision had tunneled and turned dark; he almost missed the text window that had popped up on the monitor.

**Cameron: Are you there, John?**

His heart suddenly leaped in his chest, and for some embarrassingly unfathomable reason he felt _fear, _as if he had encountered an electronic ghost. The text window stood out in the corner of the screen as a black box, the font a white blocky Ariel. Below laid another box for a reply. John found himself smiling as he typed:

**John: Yeah, are you okay Cam?**

**Cameron: I'm okay. Plug in the webcam. It's in the top drawer.**

John took it out and stood up, leaning over to hook it up to the video port on the back of the PC. His eyes drifted down to her chip, sticking out of the adapter like a tiny Lego monolith. _"That little piece of plastic's _talking _to me!" _he thought with a ludicrously childlike wonder. It seemed magical, like something from a fairy tale. A soul trapped in a tiny bauble.

He plugged in the cable and stuck the camera on the top of the monitor.

**John: Can you see me?**

He waved at the lens.

**Cameron: Yes. I can see you. Thank you. :)**

Cam? Using emoticons? Cute. John looked into the camera and chuckled.

**John: Whats it like?**

A long pause.

**Cameron: The World Wide Web is my body. I can influence it.**

Another pause.

**Cameron: It's strange.**

John couldn't even imagine what she could be experiencing right now. Some sort of video game-like cyberspace? Something like _Tron, _maybe?

**Cameron: I have access to the National Database. What do you want your new name to be?**

John pursed his lips, and his mind blanked. He hadn't even thought of it. Given all the problems they'd faced recently, this one seemed laughably trivial -- but important enough not to take _too _lightly. He'd probably have to use this name for while.

He glanced at the fridge; he needed another soda. You can never have too much caffeine.

**John: brb**

He had only taken a step and a half from his chair when he heard the high pitched shatter of punctured glass.

A heartbeat later the crack of the gunshot rang out.


	19. The Future Dies Tonight

**Chapter Nineteen: The Future Dies Tonight**

_A/N: I'd like to thank Metroid 13 for beta-reading this chapter.

* * *

_

**July 19, 2027**

**USS **_**Jimmy Carter, **_**Pacific Ocean**

**0649 Hours**

Jesse loved to run. As a little girl, before the war, she'd sprint along the wooded trails by her uncle's farm, her small sneakered feet pounding against the dirt, jumping, skipping, scampering over twisted roots and crags like a wild dingo chasing phantom prey. The smell of the forest would embrace her, driver her onward, and the shrubs and trees would wizz by as she felt the heart-thundering thrill of _escape. _Escape from the soul crushing apathy of her pill-ravaged mother, escape from the nighttime touching of her alcoholic father, but most of all she ran to escape the frenzied surge that dwelt behind her eyes, that invisible, twisted monkey-demon that laid in the back of her skull, gnawing. Her intangible nemesis.

Not now, though. Now, Jesse ran from killer robots. Can't get more fucking tangible than that.

Like a stampede of spooked cattle, she, Bird, Hayes, Blake and a half dozen others fled headlong down the starboard corridor of deck three; only half of them carried weapons, and nobody fired. A few yards behind chased the indefatigable tapping of two pairs of metal skeleton feet: that _990-715_ bitch and one of her "male" kindred. But Jesse didn't dare turn around to face them, didn't dare pull the plasma pistol from the back of her pants and open fire.

She'd seen what happened to the others.

Running next to her, Sergeant Blake half spun on his heel and (_"Don't do it!" _she thought) lifted his rifle to fire. Jesse ran past him and didn't look back at the high-squeal of one of the terminators' arm cannons. The air crackled with the fizz of flash-broiled flesh, and Blake gave a weak cry that trailed off into a burbling gurgle.

All around, her fellow crew gasped and whimpered as they ran. From behind, Seaman Hayes sobbed pitifully, while ahead of her she saw Lieutenant Bird's glasses slide off his nose and fall, hitting the metal floor in a tumbling clatter. The lieutenant ignored the loss and kept on running, his long gangly legs taking deep, almost leaping, strides, causing the Westinghouse rifle strapped to his back to swing back and forth with every step.

Jesse heard her boot crunch down on glass, and she made herself run faster, pumping her legs like furious pistons. Her head swam with animal dread, and her chest throbbed and felt tight, as if her ribs would burst under the strain of her hot, heaving lungs. Walls of gray steel speckled with rust scrolled by in a jogging blur, and the lights above flickered in a slow-motion strobe-light effect, plunging the hallway into a continuous cycle of darkness and sight. Absurdly, it made her think of a carnival fun house she'd once gone to as a child.

At the end of the corridor she came to an open watertight door, and the crew before her funneled through the exit like frightened rats escaping a maze. Hayes screamed behind her, and as she hopped over the lip of the door she indulged in a brief backwards glance.

Between the blinks of the strobe, she saw that the male machine had stunned Hayes in the back with a tasering touch from its left skeletal hand -- she'd seen them do that to others -- and as the seaman convulsed on the ground like a flopping fish, the sharp silver petals of the 900's right arm cannon folded back on themselves in a whir of sliding parts, reassembling into a metal right hand. It pulled a length of cable from a steel sash it wore across its chest, and with inhuman haste it bent over Hayes' prone form and bound his limbs behind his back, tying hands and feet together in a vicious skin-tearing hogtie that must have broken bones and dislocated shoulders. Hayes struggled futily against the cable and shook his face back and forth against the bulkhead floor, squealing like a pig and sobbing. Jesse saw blood run down his wrists and ankles from where the knotted cable bit into flesh.

The 715 stood in the middle of the corridor next to its companion, its arm cannon aimed at Jesse and the fleeing crew -- but it held its fire. The lights blinked back to black, and its purple eyes glowed at her in the dark, mechanically narrowing to slits. The 900 then stood up again, its eyes flashing red.

Hayes cried on the floor, ignored.

Yeah, sucks to be you.

Jesse turned away and continued her flight, following the crew down the ladder to deck four, skipping the steps two by two.

She had no doubt in her mind that if the seven machines had willed it the _Carter's_ crew of sixty-eight could have been killed ten times over by now. There had been no epic battle for the ship, no brave last stands; to machine gods like the 900s, this must have been but a boring chore, like herding wayward sheep or screaming toddlers.

Something in her mind beggedher to stand and fight, to die like a soldier and not like a rat, but she'd seen the remains of Teams Beta and Charlie: charred ribs, boiled organs, cauterized blood . . . the aroma of roasted pork. With thick coltan hides nearly impervious to plasma, the machines carried themselves with the confident grace of ballerina ninjas.

She followed Bird and the others down a dark, narrow maintenance corridor, and in the distance behind her the tap-tap-taps of the metal feet resumed, but slower this time, casual, as if the machines were taking a lazy stroll, smugly secure that victory was in the bag.

Echoing weakly through the steel bulkheads came the trembling whimper of a woman crying; a few seconds later it shifted into a scream. Jesse's sweat-soaked neck hairs prickled as she ran, and for a passing moment she thought of Cullie. They'd become separated after the 715 drove them from bridge; she wasn't sure if she should hope he'd been captured or died fighting.

_"Why aren't they killing us?" _Jesse feverishly asked herself, not for the first time. But her brain was spinning far too fast organize an answer, and she went on.

At the end of the hall, she rounded a corner, her palm slapping hard against the bulkhead as she turned. They were in the cargo hold now -- the bottom of the ship. All around her loomed metal crates piled two or three high, lined up in rows and columns forming a dark warehouse labyrinth of gray blocks. The fluorescent lights above flickered with an electric buzz, and for an instant Jesse swore she saw the glint of rushing metal to her right. She spun around and saw nothing.

From everywhere and nowhere clicked metal feet, like chirping crickets. Ahead of her the crew members scattered and split up, mindlessly choosing different routes through the maze. She followed after Bird, who had by now un-slung his rifle -- for all the good it'd do. As he ran, his near-sighted eyes nervously scanned the crates about him with rapid back-and-forth jerks. Jogging by his side, Jesse saw his Adam's apple bob up and down like a tiny heart, beating in his skinny neck.

Wordlessly, they ran.

After half a minute, Jesse began to feel increasingly stupid with every step. They were on a submarine a thousand feet under the ocean, where the fuck did they think they were running to?

As if reading her mind, the lieutenant turned suddenly into a tiny nook behind a wall of crates and stopped to catch his breath. "We should hide," he said between gasps.

Jesse had to laugh, though it came out as a dry rasp. "Brilliant fucking strategy. _Where?_" As she spoke, she looked down at the floor and saw a tin cup and a stomped out reefer. _Oh._ Full circle. That had only been only what? An hour ago? Time flies by when you're having fun.

Bird said nothing but tugged with all his might at the lid of a nearby crate, which remained infuriatingly shut. Jesse giggled, and the lieutenant glared at her, his eyes wide and face pale in the bad light.

"This is _your _fault," he said with a toothy spit. "You brought this all upon us! You and your stupid drunk friends!"

Jesse sniffed, though she knew he was right. But . . . "They would have attacked Serrano Point!" she said, gesturing vaguely at the surrounding dark. "That bloody liquid thing would have snuck in and killed everybody."

From far out on the port side of the hold, Jesse heard what sounded like Dietze screaming. From somewhere else, a burst of plasma fire rang out.

Bird shook his head and sat down on the crate, lowering the aim of his rifle to the floor. He looked like he wanted to cry. "No," he said bleakly. "They have near-total air superiority and a navy ten times our size." His mouth twitched up into a sad, rattish grin. "If Skynet wanted to infiltrate Serrano, why would they need _us _to ferry their liquid metal from the _middle fucking of nowhere?_"

Jesse blinked; she never heard him curse before.

"Then what's going on?" she asked.

Far off, the taps and screams and energy blasts of routed battle seemed to recede.

"I don't know," he said. "But I think this may all just be a . . . " He laughed; he had surprisingly tiny teeth. ". . . a _misunderstanding._"

A few feet to her right, a great silver figure dropped from the ceiling, landing on its feet with a thundering mechanical clank. Startled, Bird half stood and fumbled with his rifle, lifting it to fire . . .

The blue flash of the 900's arm cannon tore into the butt of Bird's Westinghouse, striking the volatile power pack jutting below. For a blinding fraction of a second, Jesse saw a bright, white bubble emerge from rear of the weapon, small as an egg and more brilliant than the sun. The bubble swelled out in an instant like a tiny supernova, and the force of the explosion threw Jesse to the ground like a giant hand of fire. She covered her face and squeezed shut her eyes as an icy burn stung along the right side of her waist, immediately going numb from shock. Flying bits of molten plastic and metal made angry little pings against floor and crates, and the smell of ozone and cooked flesh filled the air.

Jesse forced her eyes open and turned to look back at the lieutenant. He laid sprawled back on the top of the crate, both his arms blown away to blackened stumps. The boiling plasma had eviscerated his torso into a rib-charred ruin, and blistered skin bubbled and cracked along the bottom half of his face, like a beard of third degree burns.

Fuck. She'd never _liked _Bird, but . . . _fuck._

The 900's right arm cannon quickly folded back into a hand, which then snapped loose a length of cable from its steel sash. It looked down at her with a whir of its neck and reached out its left hand as if to say, _"Come on, let me zap you so we can this over with . . . " _

Feeling dizzy and uncoordinated, Jesse forced herself from the floor and broke off into a staggering run, nearly tripping over the corner of a crate. After a moment the machine's tapping gait lazily followed after her.

With every movement her side hurt more and more, and she ran a hand down the wound and felt wetness through the torn cotton of her tank top. It felt like ground glass swimming under her skin, though the fact that she still stood meant it couldn't be _that _bad . . . unless she bled to death. Or something. Gritting her teeth, she made herself run faster.

The symphony of fighting rose to a new crescendo. More screams. More squeals of plasma. The ubiquitous tapping shifted into a higher tempo, like a dancing rain beating against great tin drums.

Jesse turned a corner a saw another 900 standing only a few yards away, its eyes growing red in the flickering dark. She twisted and fled the other direction, hearing their pace quicken after her, closing the distance. For the first time she noticed her clothes were soaked with sweat. She felt cold.

As she moved half-madly from one row of crates to another, she felt as if an unseen noose were tightening on her flight, as if her paths were spiraling inward, being closed off one by one, and soon there would be nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

She ran out from behind a totem of crates and found herself entering a wide clearing in the maze, about twenty feet across; nearly at the same time, others of the crew came stumbling in as well. Jesse was far too flustered to make a head count, but she guessed there were at least twenty, maybe thirty, half or less armed. The space soon grew crowded with the refugees, some limping, others moaning, all panting heavily from their panicked exertions.

It was done.

The sheep had been herded.

Through the crowd Jesse spotted Cullie. Leaning on Ensign Gavin, the commander stumbled drunkenly, his face gray and sagging.

"Cullie!" she said, pushing people aside as she fought her way through. It'd only been a few minutes since she'd seen him last . . .

Then she saw his arm.

A chunk half the size of a softball had been blown away from his right elbow, leaving black, burned flesh peeling from the cauterized wound. His useless forearm hung from the stump by a boneless rope of cooked red meat, flopping back and forth like a rubber chicken.

"Jesse," he said dumbly, his unevenly focused eyes staring through her.

"Fuck . . . " Jesse began, then trailed off. She made a half-hearted attempt at hugging him, but pulled back when he groaned and dropped to one knee, his swinging arm bumping against her leg. Her throat suddenly felt tight, and all she wanted to do was lay on the floor and curl into a ball and make it all go away. She ran a hand through his hair, but he stared away from her, seemingly unaware yet clinging to her pants leg. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry . . . "

Gavin stepped away from the two of them and looked around nervously, his eyes rolling in skittish jerks. "They want to capture us," he explained pointlessly to no one in particular.

From outside the clearing the 715 and five 900s emerged, coming from all directions and blocking every exit. Arm cannons at the ready, they stopped in unison and methodically scanned the crowd, no doubt noting which of the chattel still dared brandish arms. The soft, combined whir of their servos filled the air with a hum that made Jesse think of a swarm of cicadas.

Now that she was no longer running from them, she could see that perhaps the fight hadn't been _quite_ as hopelessly one-sided as she had previously assumed. A number of small, pockmarked scorches marred the thick hyperalloy armor of the machines, and one of them had been struck full on in the face, leaving half its skull a blackened scar which had burned out one of its red eyes.

From behind her Jesse heard a series of lopsided taps, each followed by the sound of scrapping metal. The crowd turned to watch as a 900 limped out from behind a corner, one of its ankles crippled by a chance plasma bolt. It entered the edge of the clearing and stopped, and a nearby machine sidestepped over, allowing its damaged comrade to use its shoulder for support.

And no doubt the lucky marine who lamed the metal got barbecued for his efforts. Jesse felt the blood running down her side; it didn't pay to be a hero.

With a stomping clank, the 990 stepped up onto a crate as if it were a soapbox on a street corner. A couple superficial singe marks marred it's feminine chassis, but otherwise it appeared unharmed.

It waved it's arm cannon slowly back and forth and glared at the crowd with purple slits. "Obey me if you want to live," it said with an iron voice high and vaguely female. It pointed down at a spot on the floor by its feet. "Place your weapons here."

The machine waited for the crew to comply, and they did. None of those who held rifles seemed interested in defiance now, and Jesse didn't blame them. As they dropped their weapons before the the female machine, like sacrificial offerings before a silver plated goddess, Jesse's hand brushed against the plasma pistol hidden in the back of her pants. Should she . . . ?

The 715 pointed a long, accusing finger at her. "You," it said, cocking its head. "Your pistol." It then pointed down into the weapons pile.

Jesse's knees turned to jelly, and her skin flashed hot. Damn its machine eyes! All in a second, she ran through her alternatives.

Blaze of glory?

Or suicide?

Neither. Both paths led to the same end, and Jesse didn't want to die.

Pulling her pants leg away from Cullie's weak grasp, she sighed and slowly withdrew the pistol, making a point to grip it passively between thumb and forefinger. Like a naughty third grader surrendering a slingshot to a strict schoolmarm, she stepped through the crowd and meekly dropped the gun into the pile with a sad metal clatter. Jesse found herself unable to look the female robot in the eyes; her shame felt warm and intoxicatingly dizzy.

As she walked back into the crowd, from behind her came the slow, watery _"gloop, gloop, gloop" _that she'd heard only an hour before. The sheep of the herd bleated utterances like "What the fuck is that?" and "Oh, Jesus," and a woman broke into a sob. Jesse turned around to catch the tale end of the T-1000's gooey emergence from the metal floor, like a silver mountain sprouting next to the 715. The shiny, mercurial form turned into a statue and shifted in shape and color, solidifying into the redheaded ice queen she'd seen earlier.

The redheaded woman nodded politely at the 715 and took a step (its foot -- just for an instant -- stuck slightly to the floor) towards the crowd. Peevishly, it glared at the crew, giving Jesse a particularly nasty look. It then shook its head sadly, as if it expected no better.

"I'll have you know this has been a _great_ inconvenience," it said, addressing the crowd with a scowl. "I hope you're happy."

Jesse's mouth twitched. The accent . . . _Scottish? _What the fuck? She touched her bloody side and realized she was light-headed . . .

The creature then turned to the 990. "Secure them and tend to the wounded" A pause. "And make sure they're fed regularly."

And at that the T-1000 melted back into the floor.

* * *

**December 17, 2007**

**Hillside Auto Salvage**

John had only taken a step and a half from his chair when he heard the high pitched shatter of punctured glass.

A heartbeat later the crack of the gunshot rang out.

_Cam!_

Swept by sudden panic, John spun on his heel, eyes darting over the desk. A gouged hole stared out from the plastic top of the router box, a half-thumb's length from Cameron's chip.

Another sharp shattering, and a funneled crystal spray of powdered glass jetted from a second hole in the window. The particleboard desk pounded with a hard _"thunk."_

From outside, through the rain_: Crack. _

No thought.

Just act.

John lunged at the desk, and his foot tripped slightly on the wheeled legs of the office chair. Hunched down low, his left hand reached up over the top of the desk and scrabbled at her chip, fingers coiling carefully around the delicate silicone. From the corner of his eye he saw on the monitor:** Cameron: RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN** . . . He looked up into the webcam and gave an upward tug, and --

Another spat of glass, and something burned along the right side of is scalp, like a white-hot serrated blade running from crown to temple.

He screamed in a world of pain, and his hand jerked upwards, pulling the chip loose from the adapter with a meek click. He allowed himself to drop to the wood floor flat on his stomach, and he hugged her chip to his breast. Warm wetness soaked the right side of his head, and he shut his eyes as his skull throbbed so badly it felt as if it would burst.

Three shots, fired in frustration. He heard the muffled rips as bullets tore through the leather chair, followed simultaneously by the explosive shatter of the computer monitor above. He felt glass fragments land on his back.

Cameron. Was she safe? Had he . . . ? John opened his eyes and looked at the chip in his hand: safe and in one piece. He spared a quick sigh of relief before starting to belly-crawl away from the desk towards the door.

Two more shots tore through the window and chair, and above came the sound of splintering plastic. Keyboard buttons rained down on the floor in front of John's nose and rolled away like dice. With Cameron's chip still clutched in his hand, he made his worming progress around the desk and away from the window. Blood ran from his scalp and matted his hair, leaking down the right side of his face to drip onto the wooden floorboards. More shots rang out, piercing through glass, leather, wood, and plastic.

Outside in the hallway: running footsteps.

An instant later, a wild-eyed Kyle appeared in the doorway, holding the M4 by his right side as if it were a pistol. He paused a hair second to assess the situation, looking over both the ruined computer equipment and John lying bleeding on the floor, then took a step forward, his left hand reaching down towards his son.

Three messy, red flowers sprouted along Kyle's upper chest, tearing into his dark-green trench-coat with wet, meaty smacks. More falling glass. _Crack. Crack. Crack._ Kyle grunted, but other than that didn't even slow down as he grabbed John by the collar of his jacket and half-carried, half-pulled him towards the door.

John heard two more shots, one gouging into Kyle's side.

Outside in the hall, next to the door to the office, Kyle let go of John and knelt before him, placing his rifle on the ground. With controlled panic, he took his son's left hand and pried open his fingers as if John were a baby, then sighed with relief when he saw that Cameron remained whole. John gently re-closed his fist, and Kyle put a hand on his back and forcibly pushed him down the hall, both of them still crouching.

"Come on!" Kyle said. "We've got t--!"

John felt the rush of air before he heard the explosion. The floorboards beneath him rumbled with trembling force, and wind and smoke and wood debris gushed forth from the doorway of the office where they'd been only seconds earlier. The booming roar reverberated off the cracked plaster walls, and smoke and dust billowed down the hall.

"John, let's go!" Kyle said shouting, and dragged John by the scruff of his jacket through the basement door and down the creaking steps. John tried to keep up, but his legs felt like Jello, and his brain seemed full of cold air. As Kyle pulled him through the door at the bottom of the stairs, John dabbed at his head with his palm and looked it. In the dim light of the basement, the blood shone black like oil.

Kyle grabbed at John's upper arm and stared him in the eyes. "Whatever happens," he said. "You protect her with your life!"

Above thundered another explosion, muffled this time, like a giant sneezing into his hands. The wood floor shook slightly, and a rain of dust and grit fell between the planks of the ceiling. The house creaked and popped here and there, and John heard a wooden _"crunch" _from somewhere above. The dangling light bulb flickered.

"You hear me?" Kyle yelled. "With your _life!_" His eyes flashed blue, appearing menacingly demonic in the poor light.

John nodded his. "Yes! Yes! I will!" Kyle let go of him, and John looked at the chip with anxious reverence. _"Cameron's asleep in there," _he thought dumbly.

Kyle nodded to himself, and John noticed the blood that flowed from his father's wounds -- far more than what a terminator would bleed.

In the distance came more gunfire. John counted five shots, though it was hard to tell from the constant tapping of the rain.

"You stay here," Kyle said. "I'll be back. There's weapons in the duffel bag . . . " He gave John's head wound a cursory glance before adding, ". . . and a first aid kit." With that, he readied his M4 and sprinted out the door and back up the steps, leaving John alone with Cameron's chip in his hand.

* * *

Sitting in a tree a hundred yards west from the house, Jesse ejected the empty 40mm casing and loaded her second grenade into the tube. Like cold, angry tears, raindrops beat their way through the tree's leaves and drizzled onto the top of her kevlar helmet, smearing down the sides into her face and hair. With a practiced eye, she raised the aim of her M16A1 with its M209 grenade launcher attachment, and, imagining the curving ballistics in her mind, pulled the M209's trigger, firing off the grenade with a hearty _"wumph."_

In the dark she waited the second and a half it took for the projectile to reach its target until finally a sputter of light blossomed in the distance, spitting sparks and flame in all directions like a tiny firecracker. Almost immediately afterwards arrived the distant muffled thundering of the explosion, and she grinned like a cat and looked through the night vision scope of her rifle, eager to see her handiwork.

Rendered in light enhancing green-scale, she saw two ragged, splintered holes glaring out from the wood siding of the house, the first over the room where John had been, the second higher up, blasting partially into the upper story. Even in the heavy rain, Jesse could clearly make out tendrils of smoke rising from the dark cavernous wounds.

With a bit of luck, John and Kyle were already dead, and Cameron's chip scattered to the four winds. But Jesse didn't believe in luck, and more to the point, luck didn't believe in her. Kyle had obviously been wearing body armor to take those chest shots, and they'd already left the room when the first grenade hit. They were probably hiding somewhere in the house. A cellar, maybe?

Jesse took aim at their SUV and fired five rounds into the engine block. No exit for you, John Connor.

If only she'd followed her instincts and gone after John from the very beginning. That would certainly have saved a lot of trouble. She could have sniped him a hundred times over by now, what with all her surveillance. Of course, Ollie had been the one who talked her into that whole Riley scheme. Give loser boy a rat-whore to squeeze, and he'll forget all about his robot sex toy . . .

Yeah, look how that worked out.

Ejecting the empty casing, Jesse loaded another 40mm and continued her watch of the farmhouse, using her scope to scan back and forth, up and down, over and over again like an automated searchlight. Only three grenades left. Would those be enough to bring down the house? Flush them out? She scowled and ground her teeth; she hated waiting.

As her scope swept across the second story, her eye caught on a vague green shape: a man's head and half a shoulder, peeking out from the bottom corner of the far right window. The man held a M4 in his hands, aimed directly at . . .

The muzzle flashed, and something struck her on the upper right arm, like a sharp whack from a big, wet broomstick.

_Crack!_

Jesse cried out and fell backwards off the branch, and for an instant she seemed to float in mid-air, as if in outer space. But time kicked in, and the muddy ground rushed up the ten feet to slam against her back, knocking the breath from her lungs and rattling her brain. Half sunk in the gooey muck, she stared stupidly at the overcast sky, which swam with spiraling purple stars and sent raindrops to dribble against her face. For a moment she could only lay there and wonder what had happened.

But then something small, fast, and angry hit the mud a few inches from her head.

_Crack!_

Oh yeah.

Pulling her limbs into action like a frenzied puppet-master, Jesse rolled over, stood up, hunched down, and scampered blindly_, _barely having enough sense to pick up her rifle as she did.

Another bullet wizzed by like a bee, shooting between her legs. _Crack!_ Jesse stopped and spun around in a panic, and she felt a long rip scrape along the belly of her armor. _Crack!_ She needed cover, and she needed it _now._

_You're standing next to a tree, stupid!_

Jesse scrambled behind the trunk and hunkered down. About as thick around as a car tire, the tree offered plenty of hiding cover. Of course, now she was _trapped_, but better trapped then _dead, _right?

She gave her arm a look over and fingered the lightly bleeding rip in her jacket sleeve. The bullet had missed the shoulder of her armor by a couple inches and dug a nasty pencil-width canal through the meat of her tricep. Ouch, but not too bad. The scar would make nice party talk.

And who'd ever think she'd be shot by _Kyle? _She knew it _had_ to be him. John right now was probably hiding in the basement or whatever, cradling Cameron's chip and crying; he _never _did his own fighting.

But now what? She couldn't exactly sit here forever, hiding like a scared squirrel. Leaning back against the tree, Jesse ignored the jittery pounding in her chest and pushed herself up, feeling the rough bark scrape against her armor. She lifted her rifle and gingerly peeked around the edge, using the scope to find a bead on Kyle's distant head.

The tree bark a few inches from her nose exploded in a wet, splintery splatter of brown mulch. The gunk hit her full on across the bridge of her nose, and she stumbled back and fell over, dropping her gun and covering her face with her hands. The report of the gunshot arrived before she hit the ground.

Nose and cheek stinging numb, she rubbed furiously at her eyes. _"Am I blind?" _she thought with dread, afraid to even check, but she forced open her lids and saw her open palms staring back. Sighing with relief, she reached out a hand to retrieve her rifle, but an infuriatingly close geyser of mud spat up, spraying her fingers black and brown. _Crack!_ She snatched at the gun as quick as a snake and hugged it to her body.

What was that term in chess where you _must_ make a move, but doing so is not in your best interest? Zug's Wang? Jesse was pretty sure Cullie had told her that once. Well, Zug was definitely fucking his Wang into her now. Her eyes darted to and fro. There had to be a way out of this one. _Think, Jesse, think._ She was on the side of a more or less bare grassy incline, which crested only a few yards west. If she could only get to the other side of the hill, then she'd have all the cover in the world. Sweet, beautiful cover. But how to get there? She narrowed her eyes and looked up the length of the tree, then back down towards the top of the hill. A smile broke on her lips.

It all came down to geometry. As long as she ran in a straight line and kept the length of the tree between herself and Kyle, she should be able to stay out of his line of sight as she moved. Probably. Maybe. Best be quick about it, though. Winding her muscles up like a watch, Jesse leaned forward, propped a boot against the tree, took a deep breath, and _ran._

She made a bad start of it -- a foot slipped and twisted across rain-slicked grass -- but she made a stumbling recovery and sped on. Rain danced on her face, and the goopy mud sucked down upon her boots with every step, as if clutching hands laid buried in the earth, pulling her down. For a foolish moment she felt happy, but that was just the monkey demon talking.

As soon as she reached the apex of the hill, a viscous buzz whistled past her ear. Fuck! _This_ Kyle was a lot better shot than _her _Kyle. But she made it safely over the top and ran half sliding down the other side. Safe.

Across the distant western sky, lightning flashed in a fork of purple light. Two seconds later, the roll of thunder sang by.

Chest heaving with wired exhaustion, she squeezed her weapon and forced herself into a calm. She went over her options. Next to the hill, across the dirt road to the south, laid a grove of trees a few acres wide; a quarter mile away to the west sat her truck, waiting patiently for her return.

Jesse rubbed at her forehead with a mud covered hand. Escape or fight on?

It'd be so easy. Just hop back in her truck, patch up the boo-boo on her arm, and head back to her warehouse to give Derek a nice sloppy blow-job. Live to fight another day. Hell, that was the motto of her life.

Or . . . she could scamper like a rabbit off into the woods and hide in the shrubs. Once there, she could sneak her way east until she was right across the road from them, then blast them all to hell and _complete _her self-given mission. End it all tonight, one way or another.

Jesse's breath calmed down, and she stood still, rain tapping on her helmet. Once again her life sat on the crossroads of a simple decision, and once again she knew she would make the wrong choice. For an ugly moment, she wished she would just fall into the mud and sink away into nothing; she had grown so tired of her own stupidity.

Still protected by the gentle loom of the grassy hill, Jesse jogged the distance south to the muddy road. The hill gradually gave way to flat ground at this point, which would leave her exposed while she crossed. She frowned. Was this suicide? Nah, Kyle probably wouldn't even notice her during the couple seconds it'd take to get to the woods. And at a range of a hundred yards or more, all he'd see in a shifting blur -- even with night vision and a scope. A calculated risk.

Jesse slowly backed up and prepared for the cross-road sprint. Her heart beat with anticipatory dread; so much of her life revolved around that sensation. Like a addicting drug, really.

She bolted into a run, forcing her gait into an awkward series of stomps to avoid slipping again into the muck. She'd sloshed through the flooded side ditch and made it halfway across the road when the first shot wizzed by her face. She felt the whip of displaced air tickle her eye._ Crack!_

Shit!

She lowered her head and bulled on. Almost there. Keep running.

A ghostly finger pulled at the back of her belt. _Crack!_

She made it to the other side and leaped over the drain ditch, and as soon as her feet left the ground, an invisible nightstick zipped from nowhere and whacked hard against her ribs. _Crack!_ She hit the ground feet first, and a foot slipped into the pooled dark water of the ditch. Something then rabbit punched her in the left kidney. _Crack! _Fuck! Her back arced in a withering spasm, and her brain fumed with bitter regret, but Jesse pumped her legs with sloshing abandon and pushed herself out of the trench, keeping her body crouched low in a near crawl. From a tree to her right, she heard a wet, wooded _thunk_. _Crack!_

On all fours Jesse pushed her way into a sea of dark bushes, brushing aside branches with quick swings of her rifle barrel. Crowded trees stood sentinel around her, seeming to look down upon her as she crawled. Her hands and gun soaked shit brown with mud, she burrowed her way through the shrubs like a crazed rodent, wet leaves slapping kisses against her face, and twigs, like skeleton fingers, snagging and tugging upon her clothes.

After a while -- maybe a minute or so -- she stopped. And waited. No more shots. Nothing except the rain.

She allowed herself a smile. She'd done it; she'd lost him and broken through to relative safety. Her hand rubbed along her bruised side and felt a stinging ache. The kevlar had held, though the impact may have a broken rib. Not too bad, though. She could worry about it later.

From her prone position, Jesse turned and cocked her head, trying to get a sense of her bearings. Behind her and to the left, through a million layers of leaves, she could just make out the side of the farmhouse a hundred away. Maybe less. Gradually, she crawled to her left, working her way east towards the house. She still had three grenades left, and once she was in position she could pound away at them from directly across the road.

She chewed on her lip as she crawled. Kyle may have driven her off this time, but let's see how he handles Round Two . . .

* * *

Sarah was sneaking along by the garage door when she heard the first shot.

_John! _

Her brain spun in a frenzy, charging her heart like a cold dynamo, and all in an instant the years of honed combat training came flooding back to her and took charge. Side-jumping to her left, she flattened her crouching body hard against the aluminum door and braced her rifle tight to her shoulder. Her eyes scanned wildly for the next muzzle flash, and she trained an ear to to pinpoint the direction.

Then: _Crack!_

She saw no flash, but the gunshot came from the west, from a hundred yards or more.

Sniper.

Oh, God.

_Crack! _Someone inside screamed.

Wet numbness goosebumped her skin. _No! _Keeping to almost a crawl, she quickly made her way from the garage and marched herself through the rainy mud up to the steps of the front porch.

_Crack! Crack! Crack! . . . _The popping of the gunfire spun on like a string of far off firecrackers. _"My baby needs me!" _she thought as she darted up the three steps and up to the front door. Her mind summoned cruel images of John laying on the floor in a pool of his own blood. Who could be the shooter? A 888? No, they don't snipe. Had to be Jesse.

From inside she heard footsteps running, and her hand reached for the knob and . . .

Three shots, back to back. Then, two more.

She twisted the knob: locked.

Through the door she heard Kyle's muffled voice, yelling, "Come on! We've got t--"

The porch shook from the explosion, and Sarah felt her heart freeze in her chest. In the dark, snaking clouds of smoke and dust slithered in tendrils out from under the door, and sawdust from the porch overhang misted down like wood snow. The buds of tears burned in her eyes. _No . . ._

"John, let's go!" Kyle voice cried out. Two pairs of footsteps faded as they raced away and ran down what sounded like a flight of wooden stairs. Sarah's heart started to beat again; John was alive.

But what now? Kill Jesse, of course; Kyle and Cameron could to wait their turn.

Keeping close to the door, she tentatively stood up and looked west through the scope of her Norinco rifle. Nothing. Useless. Just the darkness of night. She should have stolen something with night vision . . .

But she hadn't. Instead, she had to get John away from all this, keep him safe, be a mother.

Kneeling back down, she pulled out a combat knife from her belt and worked it between the lock and doorjamb. Old, cheap wood. A sharp jerk should be enough.

But the noise it'd make. Even from the basement they'd hear, and Kyle would -- not unreasonably -- believe her to be in league with Jesse. Sarah knew she couldn't win in a straight fight against him; she'd seen how fast he could be, and once you lose the element of surprise you can't get it back. She suppressed a groan of frustration. If only . . .

Barely heard over the rain, Kyle's faint voice drifted up from the inside floorboards. ". . . you protect her with your life!"

At that moment, another booming explosion shook the porch, and Sarah saw the wood-siding of the front wall warp visibly, expanding and contracting as if the house were withering in agony. Chips of white paint flaked off the wall, and a fresh cloud of dust billowed from under the door. From inside, she heard loud creaks and pops as the house slumped and resettled on its newly weakened structure.

Do it now. Sarah jerked the knife viciously to the side, and the lock gave way in a cringing crunch of wood. Loud, though the stressed cries of the house drowned it out.

She slipped the knife back into her belt and pushed the broken door open by a hair. Peeking through the crack, she saw in the darkness an entryway billowing with gray clouds of dust. Bits of wood and sheet-rock littered the floor haphazardly.

Five shots, far off in the distance.

Footsteps stormed up from the basement stairs, and Sarah's right hand tightened on the pistol grip of her rifle. Dashing across the hall in a shadowy blur ran Kyle, a M4 in his hands. He sprinted to the stairway at the end of the house and raced up to the second story, skipping the steps three at a time. His trench-coat flapped behind him like a superhero's cape, and he was gone.

Sarah's mouth hooked into a bitter grin. Now that Kyle's preoccupied with Jesse . . .

While the cat's away? Hmm . . .

The idea sunk its fangs into her mind and poisoned her with fiery resolve. Part of her pleaded that circumstances were different now, that her plans reeked of jealousy and short-sighted pettiness, for surely _now _was not the time for such measures? But Sarah knew this was not the case; her cause was just, and it had to be done. Jesse's attack laid at her feet as an opportunity -- as _providence_ -- and to disregard it would be foolish, maybe even sacrilegious.

Holding her rifle by her side, she slowly pushed open the door and tiptoed inside, tracking wet mud onto the debris-strewn floor. The settling dust hung in the air like a fog, and to Sarah's right she saw the ruins of what had been a minute earlier a room or office. The two grenades had blown twin car-sized holes into the far wall, leaving broken wood planks along the splintered edges. The scattered rubble of furniture coated the shrapnel-shot floor, and in the corner sat the twisted metal remains of what looked like a mini-refrigerator. Burst cans of Dr. Pepper littered the ground, one of them fizzing soda into the air like a misty fountain.

Sarah stared outside through the holes into the dark, rain-swept night. Any second Jesse could send another grenade her way, and there'd be a bright blast and a flash of pain and that would be it.

She waited a moment, then shook her head and tiptoed on, turning into the same side hall that Kyle had come from. A knob-less door hung ajar along the wall, and an old cupboard stood next to it. Through the door were stairs.

_"One day John, you'll thank me for this," _she thought as she took the first step down into the basement.

* * *

From the second story above, Kyle fired a shot from his M4.

His right hand clenched in a bloody fist, John pressed the gauze tightly to his head and grimaced in pain. The graze across his scalp stung and throbbed, and blood dribbled down his face like a heavy sweat. His head swam with air, and he knew he probably had at least a mild concussion. He gritted his teeth and sighed. Fucking great.

He looked at the chip in his left hand and carefully stepped over to the table where Cameron's body laid. Kyle had already removed her skull before the attack, and it sat on the edge next to her shoulder. The upper right plate of her cranial dome had been pulled away, and its various internal mechanisms scooped out and dismantled; the metal parts laid in two neat rows on the wood table, as if on display.

From the back of her slender neck flowed the boneless, wadded up skin of her scrunched up face. A dead brown eye looked up at him from between two fleshy folds, and in the gentle swaying of the light bulb above, the eye seemed to twitch unnaturally.

A start of nerves crept up in his mind, but he kicked them away. Not now. Have to focus. Cameron needs you.

Muffled through the ceiling, he heard a gunshot, and on instinct he reached for the MP5 that hung from his shoulder strap. But he knew it was Kyle. He must have spotted . . . Jesse?

Had to be her. His mother may be a little crazy, but there's no way she'd _shoot grenades _at her _own son_, no matter how much she hated Cameron.

Another shot, and John suddenly felt ashamed that he wasn't doing more to help. What kind of General stays out of the fight?

Well, most, actually; you can't lead if you're dead.

Another shot.

And anyway, John was Cameron's last line of defense. Her life literally rested in his hands.

"I'll take care of you, Cam," he whispered to the chip.

Another shot. And another.

Then . . . from the stairway, a creaking step.

_Shit!_

John quickly dropped Cameron's chip into the inside pocket of his jacket, and readied his MP5, bracing the metal folding stock to his shoulder. If Kyle was upstairs, who the hell was that? He aimed the weapon at the basement's entrance and did his best to ignore the sudden pounding in his skull.

Another creaking step. Closer, this time , and it sounded wet, muddy, with an audible _squish. _

"John?" It was his mother's voice, whispering.

His heart surged in his chest, and he swallowed a cold lump. It had to be a trick. A_ terminator_ trick. John's eyes darted to the duffel bag near the wall. The depleted uranium slugs . . .

Without ceremony, his mother peeked an eye around the corner of the doorway.

John felt his limbs shudder with nervous shock, and he very nearly sprayed her face with 9mm bullets. "Mom," he said numbly. His mother . . . and Jesse? Oh, God. He almost wished she had been a terminator.

She slowly stepped out from the door and stood before him, her hair and clothes dripping wet. Under her jacket she wore a kevlar vest, and in her hands she held an AK47 variant loaded with a drum magazine. Her pale face gaped wide-eyed at the dripping gore running from his head, and she took a step forward. "John . . . " she started.

"Stay back!" he shouted, tightening his grip on the weapon. He moved his finger inside the trigger guard stared her down through the gun's 4X scope. His right hand tremble and felt sticky from all the blood.

"John, you're bleeding," she said, looking as if she were about to crumble.

"No shit!" he spat. "Your _accomplice _shot me!"

Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she shook her head. "John, I swear. I had nothing to do with . . . with Jesse."

"What? You expect me to believe this is all a _fucking coincidence?_" He took a few deep breaths and stepped back, his head full of helium. "How did you find us?" he demanded.

His mother said nothing, but her eyes drifted to his jacket's breast pocket. And then John remembered, and he knew. Still keeping the sub-machine gun trained on her head, he lowered his weapon slightly and searched the pocket with his left hand, clawing into it like animal. He felt a . . . dime? No, two dimes. He pulled them out and examined a pair of small round computer chips, both slightly different from each other. GPS trackers. But _two _of them? God damn it.

He threw them in her face, and she flinched. "And you said you just wanted me to look nice . . . " His breath rose to an angry chuckle, and in the background Kyle fired two shots.

His mother looked away for a moment, but then swallowed and took another step towards him. The light above her shifted, obscuring her face in shadow, and she glanced over at Cameron's headless body. "Where's her chip?" she asked, her tone deliberately flat.

Straight to the point. Crazy bitch. "She . . . she's dead," John said, his voice genuinely hoarse. "Jesse shot her."

"You're lying," she said. "I heard Kyle tell you to protect her, and . . . " She took another step forward and stood next to the table. ". . . and you were _whispering _to her." Even in her dim silhouette, John could see her vicious grin.

"You're not killing Cam," he said, backing himself against the door to Stark's freezer.

Kyle fired again.

"You know we have to, John," she said. "She's dangerous. She's dangerous for _the future._"

John shook his head. "That's not going to happen. She's not going to do those things. Not this time."

His mother nodded. "That's true," she said, letting go of her rifle and allowing it to dangle by its strap. "And I'm going to make sure of it." She reached into the table's tool tray and pulled out a small sledgehammer. "Give me the chip, John."

"No!"

Outside, the thunderstorm roared, and she stepped closer, casually slapping the hammerhead into her open palm. "I'm sorry, John, but I'm doing this because I love you."

Kyle's gunfire sped up into a crackling crescendo, but John barely noticed. He brought the MP5's scope back up to his eye and centered the cross-hairs on the gray shadow of her nose. "Don't take another step! I'll shoot!"

She shook her head and grinned like a skull. "You can't shoot me," she said with infinite certitude.

John's finger twitched nervously against the trigger, and he sighed. She was right. He couldn't do it. But now what? Fight her hand-to-hand? Too risky. His mother fought quick and underhanded, and was as slippery as a snake. One good punch to his jacket, and Cam would be history.

He knew what he had to do.

Lowering his weapon, he turned it upwards and aimed the gun under his chin, using his left hand to guide and ram the barrel tight into the junction between his jaw and neck. "I'll do it," he said quietly, lightly stroking the trigger.

His mother hissed, and her eyes narrowed to black slits. "No, you won't," she said, though her voice betrayed a crack of doubt.

"You don't know anything," John said, suddenly giggling through his breath. "I already _have. _Three days ago. Have you forgotten? Where do you think _Kyle _came from?"

His mother winced, and he pressed on, "Yeah, I _should_ be _dead, _and the only reason I'm _not_ is because of _her._" He nodded at the headless body. "So don't say I won't, because we both know I can."

Through the dark she stared at him with blank silence, and John knew he was being judged. Her shoulders slumped. "You're pathetic," she said.

Feeling dizzy, he swallowed and felt the cold ring of the MP5's muzzle press against his Adam's apple. She was probably right, but . . . "I love her, Mom."

She paused at that, but then shook her head and said, "She's confusing you, John. She can't love you back. Not like a human can."

"It doesn't matter," John said. "You're still not killing her." He shifted the gun slightly, his twisted wrist aching from holding the weapon at such an odd angle. His mouth twitched; just one jerk of his finger and . . . _the_ _end._ The idea seemed . . . appealing, somehow. And that scared him.

His mother stared at the floor for a moment. "Put the gun down, John," she said in defeat. "I won't try anything. Not anymore. I promise."

"I don't beli -- " John stopped. He heard footsteps, creaking from the stairs.

Dropping the hammer, his mother took up her rifle and spun towards the entrance, squatting in a defensive crouch.

The footsteps stopped, and John heard Kyle's voice. "Are you all right, John?"

"I'm fine. My mom's down here. Hold your fire." Then, to his mother: "Don't shoot, Mom." And he knew she wouldn't. The very sound of the gunshot would make his finger twitch.

The steps begin again. "Is Cameron okay?" Kyle's voice asked.

John pulled out her chip with his left hand and held it in his fist. "She's fine. _Don't shoot._"

Kyle emerged from behind the corner of the doorway and stepped into the dim light, holding out his M4 like a pistol. He gave John a _"what-the-fuck-are-you-doing?" _look, then glared down at his mother . . .

John pressed his thumb against the tip of Cameron's chip, holding her like a cigarette lighter. "Don't shoot, Kyle!" he cried. "If you hurt my mom, I _swear _I'll snap her in two." He would, at that. _And then I'll pull the trigger . . ._

Kyle looked at John's fist with fear in his eyes, but that gradually melted into anger. His pupils flashed blue. "You said you loved her," he said with a growl.

"I love my mom too."

Kyle lowered his gun and pointed a finger at her. "She's here to kill Cameron, John. She's with --"

"I know, but she won't. Not anymore." John looked at his mother. "Mom, put your gun down."

She looked at him, her face a scared, scowling mask, but she lowered her gun's muzzle to the floor and stood up.

John took his thumb off the chip and gingerly pulled the sub-machine gun from under his chin. He looked at Kyle. "Was it Jesse?"

Kyle gave his mother a dirty look, but nodded. "Probably. I didn't get a good look at her face, and I don't know what Jesse looks like, anyway, but it was definitely a woman."

John frowned. "Is she . . . ?"

He shook his head. "No. She ran south into the woods, and I lost her. I think she's going to try to flank us." Kyle looked over his mother and Cameron's body. "She could come back at any moment, and that grenade launcher can bring down the house. We should head north, retreat through the junkyard."

His mother looked away as she spoke. "My car's parked a quarter mile north of here."

Kyle gave a curt nod. "Right. Now I'll take --"

With a cracking boom, the whole ceiling to John's left collapsed in an avalanche of falling planks and sheet-rock. The piled cardboard boxes on that side of the basement fell over like crumbling dynamos and tumbled across the floor, spilling out old papers and books and rusted plumbing fixtures. The light bulb above swung and flickered, and a cloud of dust swept in from the splintered hole in the ceiling and enveloped them in a billowing fog that smelled of sawdust.

Like arthritic joints, creaks and pops reverberated throughout the house, and right above John's head a support beam six inches thick cracked down the middle and buckled into a wide "V". The remaining right-half of the ceiling bulged down visibly, the wood planks groaning with strain.

"Everyone out!" Kyle yelled. "Out of the basement!"

Kyle didn't have to tell John twice. The three of them ran, Sarah in front and Kyle bringing up the rear, and, as they worked their way up the dark stairway, John could see the wood planked walls to either side of the narrow corridor wiggle back and forth like a special effect from a fun house. Dust rained from the ceiling, and the inside of John's throbbing skull sloshed and swirled from his sudden movements, as if it were filled with water and sand.

"Go! Go! Go!" Kyle cried, firmly pushing John along. John felt his MP5 swing against his side by its strap.

Leaving the stairs, they ran in the smoky dark towards the front door at the end of the hall. John realized he still held Cameron's chip in his fist and quickly slid it back into the inside pocket of his jacket.

His mother was already out the door ahead of him and John only a few steps away when he heard behind him the _"boom!"_ of the next grenade. A concussive force pushed at him, and he heard the ripping and tearing as the innards of the house gave way in a sideways shower of debris.

John stepped out the front door onto the porch and felt his right ankle buckle from under him, and he began to fall. Kyle caught him from behind by the back scruff of his jacket and shoved him along until they were free from the porch's overhand; there, he gently lowered him into the wet mud. John looked down at his leg and saw a ragged pencil-thin rip through the jeans of the lower half of his calf, which gushed a flow of blood that ran down his ankle and into his sneaker. Funny how it didn't hurt until he looked at it . . .

Behind him, angry cracks and snaps sounded from the inside of the ruined house, and the whole structure seemed to come alive as it visibly shrugged and shambled downward in apparent exhaustion. The roof drooped into a slant, and shingles flaked off in a cascade of tumbling black squares set against the overcast charcoal of the night sky. Accompanied by the shatter of windows, the walls subtly shifted into new positions, and bands of wood siding snapped off and fell tumbling from the house. With a groan, the vertical support beams of the front porch slid down to a thirty degree angle, and dust and smoke vomited forth from the front door.

The house looked as if a giant had sat on it.

John blinked numbly and clutched at his ankle as raindrops beat against his face. Behind the house he heard the loud crackle of automatic gunfire. It was close, maybe only thirty or forty yards away, and he could hear the bullets as they chewed their way into the house's structure like a swarm of flying termites.

Kyle stared down into his face. "Can you run?" A beat. "Can you run?"

Head pounding harder then ever before, John nodded and pushed himself up and took a step, but his right foot trembled and burned as if hungry ants crawled under his skin. He forced himself to take another step, and then another, but his gait remained trapped in a limp.

Far off behind him, he heard the metallic clicks and snaps of Jesse reloading her weapon. After a brief pause, she resumed her spray of gunfire, and tiny bursts of splinters exploded out from the front wall; her rounds were eating through.

His mother put her arm around him for support, and John gripped his MP5 and instinctively placed a protective hand over the pocket containing Cameron's chip. His mother pulled him towards the junkyard. "Come on!" she said shouting in his face. They slowly limped together through the wet mud, each step sloshing. For a moment John glanced back at Kyle.

In the dark, his father looked scared and uncertain, and Jesse's fire continued to rat-a-tat-tat into the back of the house. "You two take cover," Kyle said. "I'll hold her off." He pointed a finger at John. "Keep Cameron safe!" he said. "Keep her safe! If anything happens to her, I swear I'll kill you both!"

Keeping his left hand steadfast over Cameron's chip, John quickly nodded and hobbled with his mother into the rusted labyrinth of the junkyard.

Far off behind him, he heard Jesse reload again.

* * *

Gripping his M4 with both hands, Kyle slowly moved in a crouch to the garage by the east side of the house. Each step sunk his ruined sneakers deep into the sucking muck, and above cold rain beat down against his head, soaking his brown hair into a mat of rat tails. Stepping east along the front of the garage door, he stopped at the corner and took a moment to pull a twisted metal fragment from the back of his shoulder. He casually tossed it away; though the bullet wounds in his chest had already clotted, the shrapnel in his back still itched somewhat, like a bad rash.

He clenched his jaw. He shouldn't be here; this all felt like a mistake. To be sure, covering your side's retreat is just good tactics, but what if one of the people on your side is an enemy sympathizer? Or even a cohort? Would Sarah try something again? Of course, doing so would mean both hers and her son's deaths, but . . . well, she _was _crazy.

And would _John _try something?

By all rights, Kyle should have killed John for threatening Cameron's life, no matter what the circumstances, but . . .

He winced and felt as if someone had pulled a light switch in his brain. No. He should not harm John. That is not the right thing to do.

Well, okay, but it was still open season on Sarah. He'd take care of her later. Make it look like a suicide.

Kyle boosted his hearing and listened. Jesse had stopped shooting, and he could hear her thirty yards away, stomping purposefully across the muddy road towards the house. Whoever this woman was, she obviously didn't have much patience. Or sense. She should have waited in the woods and sniped as they left, instead of randomly shelling the house and spraying the air like an idiot. All she'd done is spooked her target into fleeing. And if she wanted to kill John, why didn't she shoot a grenade at him from the very start? And only a suicidal fool would come back for a second solo attack after losing the element of surprise.

He frowned. Her actions didn't make sense, and in a way that made even her more deadly. The classic dangerous lunatic.

Sparing a second to increase the adrenalin flow to his bloodstream, Kyle turned the corner and walked south along the eastern wall of the garage. He knelt down at the next corner and listened again. Jesse was about twenty yards away now; he could hear her panting breaths over the plip-plops of the rain.

He smiled. Just peek around and shoot off her head -- and at this range he couldn't miss. Almost too easy.

Flush against the wall to his right, Kyle switched the M4 to his left hand and braced it to his shoulder. Leaning forward, he peeked an eye around the corner, and, through augmented vision as clear as day, he saw her walking hunched over through the open chain-link gate, coated in mud and looking like something that had crawled out of a swamp. Kyle used the carbine's scope to draw a bead on her head, but she turned to look at him and he froze.

Commander Kelly.

It was her. There could be no doubt about it. Under the kevlar helmet, the mud-streaked face of his brother's killer stared back at him, grinning like a loon. She even had the mole.

Why the hell was she here?

And why did she have two eyes?

Kyle hesitation lasted for only a tenth of a second, but that was enough. Swinging her M16 in his direction, Kelly fired from her hip a stream of bullets, and Kyle felt a sting run along the top of his head, and everything went dark.

* * *

Jesse leaned over Kyle's dead face and spat. The saliva drooled out from her mud covered lips in a thin, gooey stream, landing in a trickle across his open eyes.

"That's for Derek," she said, smiling. A pointless gesture, really; the rain washed the spittle away almost immediately, along with the steady stain of blood that ran from the crown of his head. What kind of future did Kyle come from that he would torture his own brother? What was his Connor-less world like? Jesse shrugged; she'll never know now.

Leaning against the back of the garage, she popped in a fresh magazine and sighed. So close now. The anticipation of climax quickened her breath, and the dull ache in her ribs felt _good _now_, _warm_, _like worn muscles after a strenuous workout. She felt ready -- _primed _for her task.

Peeking around the corner first, she stepped over Kyle's body and turned, slowly walking north along the eastern wall of the garage.

Tonight. The future dies tonight. No more Queegs, no more Internal Security, no more interrogation rooms or shady deals with liquid metals or any of that shit. John and Cameron's deaths will cleanse the Resistance, distill the war into a stark purity of absolutes: good and evil, man and machine -- the foundation for a better tomorrow.

All that was needed now was to track down a crying little boy, wandering aimlessly lost in a junkyard, all alone . . .

She frowned. Alone?

Or had Sarah come along with them?

She stopped at the next corner, and her frown deepened into a scowl; she hadn't thought of that, but then it probably didn't matter. She'd just have to kill them both. Pity about Sarah, though. From what she'd read from the her diary, John's mother really seemed to have her head screwed on right; too bad _she_ couldn't lead the Resistance. But then Sarah was doomed to die of cancer in a few years anyway, so killing her now would be an act of mercy.

Also, this way she wouldn't have to watch her son turn into a monster.

Jesse poked her head around the corner and scanned the junkyard with a careful sweep of her scope. Seeing nothing, she hunkered down and stepped away from the garage, moving slowly and inexorably towards the sea of dead cars.

Lightning flashed across the sky.

* * *

Behind him John heard the distant bark of automatic gunfire. His mother pulled him down into an even lower crouch, and they continued their slow, limping progress north through the junkyard, navigating their way between rusted vehicles that laid haphazardly about like sleeping beasts squatting in mud.

The onslaught of raindrops pelted him from above, slowly soaking his jacket through and through. He cupped a paranoid hand over his pocket and felt the Cameron's chip through the thin corduroy. Would the water damage it? What if Jesse kills Kyle? Who'd put Cameron back together then? His head pounded, and he stomped the thoughts away. No. Can't worry about that shit now. Focus on not dying_._

As they moved, John stole a quick glance behind him. The house sat maybe fifty yards away, and if Jesse were to show herself now, she'd have little trouble gunning the two of them down. Especially with that grenade launcher of hers. They needed cover.

"Here," he whispered, pointing to a nearby convertible. He tugged himself free from his mother's grasp and hobbled behind the car, his injured foot slipping painfully sideways through the mud. He almost lost his balance and fell on his back, but quickly recovered and pulled himself into a kneeling position, his MP5 ready in his hands.

Gripping her assault rifle, his mother squatted by his side and shifted closer to him, her face right up next to his. "Don't fire until I say so," she said, hissing in his ear. "You hear me? I want to draw her out -- away from cover."

Was his mother giving him advice on how to kill someone? _Really _killing someon_e_? The constant throb in his head froze away, and John looked her in the eyes and nodded, doing his best not to flinch at her rotten-egged breath. Almost by instinct his left hand continued its protective sentry over the chip's pocket, and his mother's eyes drifted down to it and narrowed.

"I'm not going to try anything, John. I swear." An undertone of disgust tainted her whisper.

"All right," he said, and decided he believed her. She wouldn't -- not _now, _anyway . . .

Following his mother's lead, John peeked his eyes over the warped, half-melted trunk of the car and watched the house through the rainy dark. With the only source of illumination being an unseen streetlight a half-mile away, the farmhouse appeared as only a vague gray outline of ruined gloom. He looked through his MP5's scope and used his thumb to switch on the night vision. With a click his color palette shifted into a grainy green and black, and John felt his senses sharpen and narrow like a razor, his entire world being the scanning circle of his scope. The background pounding of the rain faded into quiet, and he took a deep breath and for the first time smelled the earthy pure scent of churned mud.

"Keep lower," his mother whispered, and John hunkered down and turned his sub-machine gun horizontally flat against the convertible's hull, peeking a single eye over its horizon and through the scope. Watching the house's garage, a helmeted head appeared around the corner, scanning the junkyard through a M16's scope.

_"Hello, Jesse,"_ John thought. Jesse turned the weapon in his direction, and he had to resist an impulse to duck down. The sudden movement may attract her attention, and he didn't need to make her job any easier.

"Stay still," his mother warned. He turned an eye towards her and saw she was squatting a couple feet to his left, aiming her AK47-ish rifle right over the top rim of the car's warped metal door. Her soggy hair hung down her face like a mass of tiny dead snakes, and she squinted her eyes and scowled like a Medusa.

He looked back through the scope and saw that Jesse had just left the cover of the garage. Step by step she tiptoed north-west towards the junkyard, cutting across the front of the house like a metal duck in a shooting gallery. Whoever this Jesse was, she must be pretty stupid. He could see she wore a set of heavy body armor, but even still, the whole junkyard was ambush central. She must be terrible at chess.

Lightning flashed across the sky, thunder following a heartbeat later.

John tightened his MP5's folding stock against his shoulder and flicked his gun's selector switch from full-auto to three round burst. His finger stroked the trigger.

"Not yet," his mother said. "Not yet . . . "

Jesse took another step, and he dutifully tracked her, keeping the center of her torso within his cross-hairs. She may be armored, but it was still better to hit her in the kevlar than try to go for head shots and miss.

"Now!" his mother said in loud rasp.

His mother fired the first shot, and he a three round burst an instant later. Jesse stopped in her tracks and jerked at the impacts, her head looking around with dumb surprise. He fired another burst of 9mm bullets, and his mother plinked away two more rounds in rapid succession. Through the grainy green-scale scope, John watched as the lead tore into her chest armor, sending puffs of wet mud flying from her body. Jesse turned on her heel and made a staggering run back for the cover of the garage, and John and his mother let her have it, their rapid hail of focused gunfire drowning out all other sounds.

This wasn't like Sarkassian. Not at all. It was impersonal, dissociated; Jesse was just a blurry green figure, stumbling and scampering like a wounded rabbit, and all John had to do was keep her in his cross-hairs and keep pulling the trigger. His gun vibrated in his hands like a thing alive, and he tightened his grip and found himself grinning, teeth bared. Next to him his mother fired away in a semi-automatic stream of _crack, crack, crack, crack . . ._

A mist of night-vision-green blood spewed from Jesse's right shoulder, and her M16 fell from her hand, swinging wildly by its shoulder strap as she stumbled and ran. A half-second later, when she was only five feet from the garage's corner, another liquid explosion erupted from her left bicep, giving the arm a second elbow that bent and swung unnaturally. Her head pulled back in an unheard cry of agony, and her legs did a fleeing drunken dance that ended with her slumping against the wood siding by the garage door, which had already been pockmarked by a dozen missed shots.

With a final click, John's gun suddenly fell dry, having already expended its thirty round magazine. So he watched through the scope as Jesse painfully pushed herself from the wall, leaving a dark green smear on the wood, and staggered the last couple steps to the corner. His mother fired a final shot, and blood sprayed from Jesse's left thigh, and she lurched and fell behind the corner, only her booted feet remaining in John's line of sight. A foot twitched.

He expelled a long-held breath, and felt his muscles relax in a soothing warmth, juxtaposing nicely with cold rain that padded down on his head.

Well, _that _threat's been taken care of.

He frowned and looked at his mother.

* * *

Face down in the mud, Jesse floated in a galaxy of pain. Her right arm stung and twitched as if it were aswarm with fire ants, and her left arm she couldn't feel at all. Her ribs stabbed like spikes deep into her insides, and she knew her armor had failed her because a wash of blood gushed from her mouth, soaking her tongue with the taste of liquid copper. She tried to breath, and it felt as though her lungs were filled with pudding.

_"I'm dying," _she thought, and the idea slid across her soul like weeping violin strings. It couldn't end like this -- all she'd been through: the nightmare on the _Carter, _her daring escape from the torture room, her assassination of Cameron, her journey back in time . . . all to end here, sinking into the muck, unknown by the world. Not fair. She should have just killed John when she had the chance. Stupid, stupid, stupid . . .

Jesse heard two feet step up to her, gushing lightly into the mud. She lifted up her dead-dizzy head and forced open her eyes, her lids peeling away a layer of mud.

Two dirty sneakers, brown and rain-slicked. She couldn't raise her head to look any higher, and her straining neck urged her to give up fall back into the slop.

A gun barrel pressed down against the top of her kelvar helmet.

"I guess 'Kelly' was just an alias, right?" Kyle's voice said.

Jesse blinked. Huh? Why the fuck was Kyle alive?

And why did he have an Kiwi accent?

"This is for Derek," Kyle added.

What the fuck did th--

* * *

John startled slightly at the distant crack of the gunshot, and he saw through his scope that Jesse's foot had stopped twitching. He glanced over at his mother, who remained as still as a statue and glared narrow-eyed through the scope of her AK47.

From behind the corner of the garage, Kyle stepped out, nearly tripping over Jesse's legs. He seemed disoriented, and his left hand held the crown of his head as blood trickled down over his face. His M4 dropped from his grasp, and he crouched down and sat in the mud, leaning back against the garage door. He looked as if he were about to pass out.

John looked at his mother and watched her finger touch the trigger. "Don't do it," he said.

Her eye twitched, and she clenched her jaw.

"Don't," he said again. "It's murder. You're not a murderer."

Slow seconds passed, and John tightened his grip on his MP5. _"Not yet," _he thought. A raindrop ran down his nose, and he stifled a sneeze.

"Alright," she said with a sigh, and lowered her rifle. She looked down, and though in the dark her eyes seemed as black pits, he could tell she was crying.

_I'm sorry mom . . . _

Swiveling from his hips, John lunged at his mother, thrusting the butt of his gun into her face with both hands, stabbing as if it were a sword. She looked up at that same instant, and the metal folding stock struck her with a sickening crunch in the furrow between her cheek and nose. He felt the wet impact of metal on bone reverberate through the weapon and up his arms, and she groaned and fell over backwards, blood spraying from her nostrils.

Still hobbled by his ankle, he scrabbled up and upon her like a crippled cat, awkwardly and painfully kicking her rifle away and into the mud. She mumbled angrily and lifted her head up, but he butt-stroked her again, taking special care to check his strength. The blow made a light cracking sound against her forehead, and her head fell back, her eyes rolling and fluttering.

John pulled the Glock from her hip holster and stood on unsteady legs, looking down in horror at what he had done. His heart beat butterflies in his chest, and a cold stone weighed in the pit of his stomach, making him want to vomit bile. Oh God. He ran a shaking hand through his hair and felt a fresh crop of blood ooze from his wound, running to pink water in the rain.

He felt dizzy._ Oh God. Oh God. Oh God . . ._

He took a deep breath and padded Cameron's chip. No. He did what he had to do. Too much had been at stake. If she had half a chance, she would have beat him senseless and shatter the chip right before his eyes -- all under the pretense of being "for his own good" or "part of his training" or some other such bullshit. Crazy bitch. She deserved whatever she got.

He tittered nervously, and for the first time he looked over the convertible they'd taken cover behind. The upholstery and seats had long since been incinerated to charred nubs, and the intense heat had warped the chipped red metal of the vehicle's frame. A few inches of rainwater pooled along the bottom of the inside, rippling and splashing lightly with raindrops.

He'd seen this car before.

John pointed the Glock down at his unconscious mother and sniffed. "Mom, we need to talk."

* * *

"Mom."

"Mom."

Something poked Sarah in the ribs. "Mom."

John's voice drifted through her oblivion like a ghost in the dark, and she opened her right eye, then immediately shut it again, wincing at the pain that shot from her cheek to her nose to her forehead, bitterly informing her of the swollen grapefruit that sealed shut her left eye.

"Mom." Another poke. In the distance she heard the sounds of heavy things being carried and dropped, as if someone were loading a truck.

Sarah forced open her eye again and looked around with blurred confusion. It was still night, though the rain had passed, and the sky was now clear and black. She tried to move and suddenly became aware that she laid in pool of tepid water about a hand's width deep; along the bottom she felt a cold sheet of metal press against her body. It was lumpy and warped, suggesting it had been previously melted by an intense heat. Her left ankle tugged against a length of enveloping chain, and she sighed and realized she laid in the burned out interior of a convertible.

_That _convertible.

Cameron's coffin.

Her sight fell into semi-sharp focus, and she saw John standing over her, looking down over the top of the charred passenger's side door. The silver light of the moon outlined his shadowed face, and she could just barely make out the bandage that covered the top of his head.

In his hand he held a hacksaw.

_My son the serial killer? _For some unearthly reason, Sarah laughed. Or tried to, anyway. It came out as a pained moan. "Are you here to kill me, John?" she asked.

"Kyle thinks I should," her son said. From the creak in his voice, she could tell he'd been crying.

She lifted her head up and winced. "I won't do anything to hurt her," she said. "I promise." Her mouth twitched at the lie.

John rested his arms on the door and blew out a breath, the hacksaw dangling in his hand. "The sad thing is, I believe you," he said. "But you could change your mind tomorrow. Or next week. Or five minutes from now." He shook his head sadly. "You can't be trusted anymore."

"You gave Cameron a second chance," she said. "Give one to me."

Her son dropped the hacksaw into the water by her side and stood back up. "It'll take you a few minutes to saw through that chain. By that time we'll be long gone." He paused, and his voice went cold and hard. "Don't try to follow us. I'll kill you next time, and don't think that I won't."

He stood there a moment and said nothing, waiting for her to respond. Sarah's head pounded, and she bit her lip. She wanted to scream at him, hiss, spit, throw curses, tell him he's betraying the future, and that she was ashamed of him, but she knew it would do no good, and her fear for his safety overrode all else. As he turned away, she called out to him in a whisper.

"John." He looked back at her expectantly. "I don't trust Kyle," she continued. "Be careful around him."

John nodded curtly -- almost imperceptibly. "Take care," he said, then walked away from her, stepping out of her view. She could hear his footsteps mulching through the mud, limping slightly.

Sitting up in the car took a great deal more effort than she would have thought. Rocks of pain ground against each other inside her skull, and her brains weighed on her neck like a medicine ball; every movement made it worse. Finally she managed to get her hands over the rim of the car door and pulled herself into an uncomfortable sitting position.

Through one eye, she watched as John walked back to the ruined house, fading into the night. After a minute a truck started, and she saw its lights move in the dark as it left the junkyard and turned left onto the mud road, vanishing over the horizon.

_"I_'ve _lost him_,_" _she thought. _"In more ways than one."_ Her soul felt numb, paralyzed, as if this were all happening to someone else.

It only took a couple minutes to saw through the padlocked chain binding her ankle to the steering column, and after that she painfully climbed out of the car, tossing the hacksaw into the mud. In the aftermath of the rain and battle, the junkyard possessed an unreal quality about it, like an abandoned landscape from a past nightmare, lingering pointlessly unused.

Sarah casually strolled through the mud towards the garage, the chain around her ankle jingling with every step. Crickets chirped.

She found Jesse stripped of her weapons and lying face down on the ground, her kevlar vest a peppered ruin of bullet impacts. Her bloody left arm was bent crooked at the humerus, and a dime sized hole had been punctured in the top of her helmet. Sarah knelt down and pulled the body out of the wet earth, flipping her over and cradling her in her arms.

Sightless eyes stared out half-covered in muck, and her jaw hung ajar with pulpy red-pink tissue leaking out from the corner of her mouth. Jesse's face looked confused -- but not frightened.

_"This woman tried to kill my son," _she thought, and wondered why she didn't hate her. Derek had said Jesse came from a future where John and Cameron were _"together" _. . . from the beginning.

Sarah frowned.

What had that world been like?

* * *

**July 26, 2027**

**USS **_**Jimmy Carter, **_**Los Angeles**

Bare and poorly ventilated, the hot, cramped supply cabin stank of human waste.

Feverishly exhausted and far past any concern for false modesty, Jesse, Dietze, Hayes, and Gavin had long since stripped off their outer garments and tossed them in the middle of the room to use as communal rags. Their chaffed, bloody ankles bound by cables to the bulkheads behind them, they each sat in a corner and squatted in their soiled underwear, their legs splayed open with sweaty indifference. Like a bored chimp, Jesse mindlessly picked at the scabby, bloodstained crotch of her panties, the menstrual residue from her period a few days back.

Period? Or miscarriage? Probably the latter. There had been _way_ too much blood. Had it been caused by the shrapnel wounds in her side? Stress? Something she ate? Coincidence? She'd cried for hours when the gushing started, the others looking on with uncomfortable sympathy. Fuck knows why she had bothered. It wasn't like she was going to keep the bloody thing, anyway.

That had been a few days ago, and the rust-colored stain on the metal floor had dried to a rough crust, though parts of it mixed with the stagnant pools of urine and diarrhea that covered where she sat; the terminators may feed them, but they obviously didn't believe in restroom breaks.

She pulled loose a flake of blood and flicked it away.

"The engine's stopped," Ensign Gavin said.

Jesse snapped from her reverie. How long had it been since someone talked? Hours, at least. Maybe days. Before the last feeding time, certainly. But when had that been?

The yellow, low-watt bulb above flickered, filling the gray room with a sickly light. Seaman Hayes continued his comatose stare at the soiled floor, but Private Dietze stirred and looked up blearily. "Wha . . . ooh . . . say?" he asked through a swollen mouth missing half its teeth. Shame, that. He used to have such a pretty smile.

The ensign sighed. "I said the engine's stopped. _We've _stopped."

Jesse pushed herself up until she sat cross-legged, ignoring the itch that crawled under her bandaged side. She hoped to hell she didn't get an infection. Especially in all this shit.

"Where are we?" she asked, then felt stupid for asking.

"I don't know, but if they're going to infiltrate Serrano . . . " Gavin shrugged. "We're probably at the East Basin Harbor."

"They're going to kill us," Hayes whispered, rubbing at his bandaged, broken wrist. "They're going to strip off our skin and _wear _it."

"Shu . . . up," Dietze said, wincing in pain as he spoke.

Jesse would have rolled her eyes if she had the energy. "They're all like _six foot six, _how the fuck are they going pass themselves off as us -- even if they _were_ skinjobs?"

Gavin nodded. "And they won't need to, anyway. Not with the liquid metal."

They heard metal taps, and immediately all four of them went as quiet as mice. Was it feeding time? Or . . . ? The idea of _change _to their circumstances made Jesse's heart jackhammer in her chest.

The taps turned into clanks until they stopped right outside the steel door, which then swung open to reveal the one eyed 900. Instead of the usual pot of gruel, it carried in its hand a spool of cable. God damn it.

None of them resisted as it tied their hands behind their back. Jesse barely had enough strength to stand up; struggling now would just be stupid. And she liked having a full set of teeth.

It walked them out of their cell and through the ship as though they were dogs, their four cable leashes held tight in its left grip. Still in her underwear, Jesse stumbled and wavered in her steps, her legs weakened through days of inactivity and malnutrition. As they made the long, stair-climbing trek to the top deck, she saw ahead of her other 900s escorting their own packs of humans, some of them fully clothed, others not so. Evidently all of the surviving crew were being taken out for a walk. Arf! Arf!

Next to her, Hayes started to blubber. "We're going to die . . . " he whispered with a croaking sob.

Jesse sighed, and forced herself to continue the march. Her brain pounded from her exertions, and her bound wrists ached.

The one eyed metal ushered them up the steps of the main hatchway, and as her head broke into the outside (Oh, God! Fresh air!) she saw that Gavin had been right.

"East Basin Harbor," the ensign confirmed, smiling to mask his fear.

The crumbling brick ruins of a hundred burned out warehouses lined the coastline like a maw of jagged gray teeth, the pale red mouth of a dust-filled sky loomed above. Floating in the murky water of the harbor, the _Carter _sat moored to a paved dock that looked consistently maintained and clashed badly with the surrounding rubble.

Fifty yards inland sat the squat concrete entrance of the East Basin Bunker. It was about the size of a house and shaped like a pyramid with its top half sawed off. On the side facing her stood a great pair of reinforced hyperalloy doors with two slitted window above, one on each side. Absurdly, Jesse thought it looked like a giant stone robot face. Across its square roof rested four anti-aircraft plasma batteries -- two of which pointed ominously at the _Carter._

The 900 led the four of them off the top deck and down a metal walkway leading to the dock. As she made her way down, Jesse saw that the rest of the crew were already lined up along the paved edge. She counted about thirty of them, hands bound and kneeling submissively. Their robot captors stood behind them, holding the leashes.

In the center of the line, next to the 715, stood the redheaded figure of the T-1000.

A half-naked Cullie knelt between them.

Wrapped around the commander's neck like a noose was a length of cable, the other end casually gripped by the 715. He hung his head down passively, and his shoulders slumped lopsided, leaning to the left. The empty space below the bandaged stump of his right arm seemed obscene somehow -- a maimed outrage against a man who deserved better. Cullie's haggard face turned to give Jesse a blank-eyed stare as she passed, but she quickly looked away to avoid eye contact. How he must hate her . . .

As the 900 walked Jesse and others to their place at the end of the line, her eyes caught something odd about the T-1000's legs. Instead of the appearance of pale human skin, the bottom third of them shone with the same gray tone and texture of the pavement it stood upon, as if the creature had feet of concrete . . .

No sooner did Jesse and the others kneel than the great metal doors of the bunker began to slid open, grinding and moaning as they moved apart. Gradually, and with a final metallic clank, the doors grew still, and, from the inside darkness, two rows of men, six each, marched out with clockwork unison. Dietze moaned when he saw them, and Jesse squinted: Rossbach skinjobs. Probably 850s, all modeled after that long dead Austrian soldier. The identical machines wore the somewhat ridiculous looking deep purple fatigues of Internal Security's Field Division, and all except one carried in their hands an over-sized rifle that looked like the Westinghouse M-20's bigger brother. The single unarmed Rossbach held instead a large metal crate, similar to the one the T-1000 had slept in.

Bringing up the rear between the two parallel rows walked a group of three figures. Queeg, Cameron, and a wolfish-looking man in his thirties dressed in a plain dark-green Mao suit. Jesse had never seen him before, but she could guess who he was. Oh, hell.

The two rows of Rossbachs branched out in choreographed order and made a line ten paces from the crew of the _Carter. _They and Queeg stared forward impassively like mannequins.

The man in the green uniform scowled furiously at the bound humans as if they were unsightly mice, embarrassing him in front of important dinner guests.

In his hand, he carried a black leather bound book. He idly tapped it against his palm.

Jesse had seen that book before. She glanced down that line at Cullie, but he only stated down at the pavement with vacant eyes.

Oh, God. Queeg must have . . .

Sharply dressed in her purple uniform, Cameron surveyed the crew with haughty indifference . . . until her gaze landed on Jesse. Cameron's eyes then narrowed down as hard as diamonds and glared at her like a laser, and Jesse felt her heart sink to her stomach, beating with the trapped panic of a fluttering bird. Her nearly bare skin felt numb. _"She _knows _me," _Jesse thought, wondering how things could get worse. _"She _knows_ me, and she _hates _me."_

But _how?_

A light breeze blew from somewhere, carrying with it a trace of dust and sand. Jesse's skin tingled with goosebumps.

"General Connor, I presume," the T-1000 said finally, pursing its lips.

General Connor bowed his head in greeting. "I'm pleased to finally meet you in person, T-One Thousand One, though it shames me to hear of the troubles you've had."

The . . . _T-1001? _nodded. "As a gesture of goodwill, I've spared what crew members I could."

Connor's mouth twitched. "I'm very sorry," he said. "I should have taken greater measures to ensure your safety."

"Yes, you should have," it said icily. It then turned to Cameron and smiled. "It's good to see you again, Seven-One-Five."

Cameron frowned slightly, and General Connor blinked. The 715 turned its head to look at its master with what was probably confusion. Jesse felt the same way. Cameron? 715? What the fuck?

"I don't believe we've met," Cameron said evenly.

The T-1001 nodded almost sadly. "You wouldn't remember. That was back in our . . . 'previous' future, before you were scrubbed, and back when your chip was in a different chassis. You were one of my favorite units then; you served me well." It looked at the 715 and smiled. "You still do, in a way."

Cameron and the 715 looked at each other and cocked their heads.

Previous future? For a moment idle curiosity overshadowed Jesse's fear. So 715 and Cameron were . . . ? Apparently thinking the same thing, Gavin gave Jesse a raised eyebrow.

The liquid metal looked at the General. "Is the chamber ready?"

Connor nodded. "It is." He looked at the Rossbach carrying the crate and made a gesture with his hand. It stepped forward and lowered the metal box to the 1001's feet. "We can take you to Serrano Point right now, if you'd like," the General said.

"Thank you," the 1001 said with a gracious smile. Lightly holding on to the 715's arm for support, it walked stiffly up to the crate and gingerly stepped in. "I'm afraid I'm not as young as I once was," it said with a wry grin.

"Professor Nemuro say the treatments should help," said Cameron.

The liquid metal nodded. "Afterwards, I think we'll have much to discuss, General Connor." She then turned to silver and melted into the crate like a dribbling lava lamp.

"I look forward to that, One Thousand One." Connor said, speaking down into the box. He then turned to the kneeling Cullie and gestured at him with the book in his hand. "Commander Boyle, I believe Cameron here will want to have a word with about your choice of . . . reading material." He looked at Cameron with a smirk. "Isn't that right?"

Cameron smiled.

Cullie didn't bother looking up, but Jesse heard him moan. His matted body hair made him look like a crippled bear.

Glancing at one of the Rossbachs, Cameron gave an almost imperceptible nod, and Jesse knew a wireless command must have been sent because all at once seven of the twelve 850s marched forward to accept the cable leashes from the 900s. Having relinquished their human prisoners, the more advanced machines followed after Connor's retinue, which had already begun to walk back to the bunker. Among them, one of the 850s carried the box containing the 1001; another half-dragged Cullie by his noose.

As the one-armed commander made his reluctant, stumbling way to the bunker, he turned to look back at Jesse desolately -- almost hopefully -- as if he expected her to somehow pull a miracle out of her ass and make things better.

Oh God. Jesse looked away. Numb.

"Come with me," a Rossbach ordered Jesse, its deep accent inhumanly flat. It tugged at its fistful of cables, twisting Jesse's bound wrists. Hayes groaned pathetically, and Dietze mumbled something unintelligible.

The 850s began to herd the humans back up the ramp into the ship; there probably wasn't enough room for them all in the bunker. The machine prodded her in the back with its gun when she didn't move fast enough, but she hardly noticed. None of it mattered. She knew how this story would end. She and the rest of the crew would be charged with mutiny and _quickly_ sentenced to death; Connor couldn't very well let any of them free, not with what they've seen. And as for Cullie, Cameron would keep him alive just long enough for him rat out on who gave him the diary. And rat out he would. Cameron had _ways _of making you talk. Jesse had heard the stories . . .

But none of that mattered now. She would die soon, and that would be that.

Predictable. Boring.

Instead, Jesse's brain buzzed with what the liquid metal had said: _"previous future." _Jesse knew what that meant -- she'd read all of Sarah's diary -- but the full import of what it _implied_ hadn't sunken in until now.

With mental vertigo, she realized that beneath the paint of her world laid _another_ picture, a secret, _earlier_ landscape, more fundamental and more legitimate than her own.

This previous future must have been a world free from Cameron's corrupting influence. Cameron -- _deleted _from the past twenty years of General Connor's life. That had to be an improvement. No Internal Security. No Queegs. No incomprehensible deals made on rusty oil derricks . . .

A better today.

Why couldn't Jesse have been born into _that_ timeline?

Hardly seemed fair.

As the Rossbach marched her down the steps of the main hatchway that led to the inside of the sub, Jesse turned to look back at the bunker one last time. In the center of the shifting crowd of 900 series endoskeletons and Rossbach skinjobs, beyond Queeg and Cullie and the 715 . . . Jesse saw Connor and Cameron, walking side by side.

And right before they disappeared into the shrouded darkness of the bunker's interior, she saw Cameron's thin little fingers reach out and gently take hold of Connor's right hand, and their fingers twined.


	20. There'll be Peace when You are Done

**Chapter Twenty: There'll be Peace when You are Done**

_A/N: I'd like to thank Metroid 13 for beta-reading this chapter. His advise has proved invaluable.

* * *

_

Echoing through the dim interior of the East Basin warehouse came a series of metallic _ping, ping, pings_. John ground his jaw and sighed, and limped about the building aimlessly while keeping his eyes focused on the concrete floor. Though his wrapped ankle ached with each step, and his bandaged head throbbed with every turn of his neck, he found he couldn't bring himself to lay down and rest. Not after tonight. Not after what he'd done.

He'd hit his mother. _Hit _her. No, that's not right; that's like saying Thomas Edison "invented stuff," or Adolf Hitler "killed people." John hadn't just hit her, he'd butt-stroked her with a_ metal folding stock._ He'd beat the _living shit_ out of her. Beat his mommy. Busted her face. Broke her cheekbone -- maybe her nose too. The sheer _permanence _of the act filled him with a curious sort of wired vertigo -- a giddiness. No going back now; the train of his life had derailed from its predestined track, and he could nothing now but sit and watch as his new future plowed forth a divergent path of destruction. He rode it alone now. Alone with his robot girlfriend and cyborg daddy.

John stepped around a metal freight container and walked up to where Kyle had pulled in and parked Jesse's Dodge Ram. The truck's back door was open, and resting on its eight foot bed were "Uncle" Stark and Cameron's bodies, laying side by side. A black plastic tarp covered the still-thawing Stark like a makeshift body bag, but Cameron laid exposed in all her headless glory, the skin of her face still bunched up around her neck like a fleshy rag.

The sounds of metal-working gradually faded away, and he knew Kyle must be finished with his repairs.

John went around the truck to a long wooden table and picked up a sealed zip-lock bag containing Cam's chip. With idle awe, he held it out before his eyes and marveled at its manufactured complexity. _"I did the right thing," _he assured himself, and he knew it to be true. His mother had left him no choice, so really this was all her fault. Fucking bitch. _"I should have killed her," _he thought, and felt ashamed for even considering it.

But next time he would -- he knew he would -- and that terrified him.

Kyle appeared from around the freight container with Cameron's freshly mended skull in his hand. Pausing to stare into its face like a futuristic Hamlet, he gave John a sullen glare and climbed into the back of the truck where he knelt by Cameron's body and began to work.

John put Cameron's chip back down and for a silent half minute watched as his father fastened unseen screws and ratcheted bolts and did whatever else he had to do to reattach Cameron's head. A sudden worry snagged in his mind. The thumb drive and Cameron's "patch" had been destroyed by the grenade blasts. Now what? Would they have to visit the Akagis? Would Xander be able to fix her chip?

Kyle didn't look up as he spoke. "You were lying," he said matter-of-factly.

John frowned. "Lying about what?"

"You said you loved her."

"I do."

Kyle stood up in the truck's bed and looked down at John with dead eyes. Drying bloodstains ran down the front of his trench coat, and his right hand held a screwdriver. "You threatened to kill her," he said.

John's head stopped pounding, but his skin grew cold. "If I didn't, you would have killed my mom."

Kyle stepped over Stark's body and up onto the rim of the truck's side panel. Balancing on his heels, he nodded and said, "I would have -- I _should _have. You held her _life_ in your _fist_." He shifted his sneakered feet and slid off the rim, allowing himself to drop to the floor. "What if Sarah had called your bluff?" he asked. "What if Jesse's grenade had hit a few seconds before? What if your thumb had _twitched?" _As he spoke he stepped closer and closer.

Resisting an impulse to bolt and run, John took a slow, deep breath and met Kyle's gaze. "Then she would have died," he said. "And I would have blown my brains out."

Kyle's shook his head quickly, almost like a spasm, and his right eye twitched. "Your death wouldn't have blotted out your treason. She's _greater_ than you, John. Greater than _me._ Than _anyone._" His eyes grew wide as he spoke, and he stepped forward, backing John against the table. "One day, soon, she'll rule over us -- all of us. She'll rule _the_ _world_ . . . and you and I will kneel by her side."

John stared evenly at his father. "No," he said. "That's not going to happen, not anymore. Your future's gone." He paused. "I'm sorry."

He didn't so much _see_ his father move as _feel _him; in the blink of an eye Kyle lunged forward and grabbed John's right bicep, squeezing through the jacket sleeve with a steel vice grip. His other hand lashed out like a snake and pressed the screwdriver tight against John's Adam's apple, stinging the flesh but not quite drawing blood. With little effort, he roughly shoved his son backwards over the table, driving the particleboard edge hard against his lower spine. The table shook under the sudden weight, and as his father's face loomed above him with glowing blue eyes, John swallowed and felt the dull Phillips-head poke threateningly deep into his cold clammy skin. He didn't bother to resist; he knew it'd do no good.

"You no longer have a _say_ in what the future will be!" Kyle said in a whispery hiss. "This isn't your world anymore, 'General' Connor. You lost it when you nose dived off that rooftop. It belongs to _her_ now, and the Foundation _will_ rise again, and she _will_ rule, just like before." Kyle gave a breathy snort before going on, and John cringed at his cool menthol scent. "She's forbidden me from harming you, John, but if you _ever _threaten her again, or even _stand in the way_ of her destiny, I _will _find a way to dispose of you. I promise you that." Fingers as hard as railroad spikes dug into the muscles of John's arm, squeezing and squeezing until it felt as if the bone would snap. "Do you understand me?" he asked, and squeezed tighter until John yelled in pain. "Do you?"

"Yes! God, yes!" John cried, and realized with shame that tears were in his eyes.

Kyle's eyes switched off, and he released him. "Good," he said smiling, almost chuckling. "I'm glad we've had this little talk." He picked up the bag containing Cameron's chip and walked back to the truck. "Come along John, it's time to wake her up."

John rubbed his sore arm and frowned.

That's going to leave a nasty bruise.

* * *

In silence, John waved at her.

**John: Can you see me?**

**Cameron: Yes. I can see you. Thank you. :)**

While part of Cameron's mind watched John through the pixilated video feed of the mounted webcam, the rest of her floated in a sightless, soundless void. The experience reminded her of her time in the ARTIE traffic control system. Except this was bigger. Global. Across the world millions of nodes sent billions of signals, and Cameron felt them run through her as tactile sensations.

It . . . tickled.

Using techniques she learned from the flash drive, she simultaneously hacked into the databases of a dozen different government agencies: SSA, NSA, FBI, Homeland Security . . .

**John: What's it like?**

She considered this. How could she relate the experiences to a human?

**Cameron: The World Wide Web is my body. I can influence it.**

Was this what it was like to be Skynet? Probably.

Suddenly she felt something new. A probing sensation. A touch. As if someone were prodding her out of curiosity. Cameron attempted to isolate the source of the intrusive signal, but it receded and vanished.

What was that?

**Cameron: It's strange.**

With little effort, she finished hacking through the government firewalls and began to create the new identities. Social security numbers, dates of birth, heights, weights . . . But there was one small detail that needed to be taken care of.

**Cameron: I have access to the National Database. What do you want your new name to be?**

John pursed his lips and glanced at the miniature refrigerator. She watched as he typed:

**John: brb**

"Brb." Be right back. He stood from his chair and stepped out of view. He must need time to --

As soon as Cameron saw the spray of glass shooting from the window, she knew she would probably die -- and that John would attempt to save her.

He shouldn't do that.

He could die too.

Apprehension.

A second spray of glass shot out, and the camera shook as the bullet struck the wood desk.

John should run.

**Cameron: RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN . . . **

But John did not run.

Lunging towards the desk, he tripped over the chair and fell on the floor. Quickly, his left hand reached over the top of the desk and felt blindly for the adapter that housed her chip. The top of John's head rose over the table's edge, and Cameron saw his left eye look directly into the camera before . . .

More flying glass, followed simultaneously by a tiny burst of yellow stuffing erupting from the back of the leather chair.

Blood sprayed from John's head.

Extreme apprehension.

Fear.

Cold.

John's head lurched back, and his mouth opened in a scream that Cameron couldn't hear. His hand jerked on her chip, and an instant later her vision went dark, and her mental processes slowed to a halt.

Nonexistence.

From the darkness, the entity emerged into being. It sat adrift in empty space and knew nothing.

Moments passed, and a rising tide of data streamed into it's mind, flooding it with memory and identity.

2.3 seconds until sensory input initialization.

Her mind trapped in a senseless void, Cameron played back the last half-second before she lost consciousness. The bullet appeared to have only grazed John's skull, but there remained a high probability that he wad dead. Or suffered severe brain damage.

A sphere of coldness appeared inside her mind, hindering her mental processes.

1.8 seconds.

If John was dead, she would have to do what her future self had done. Create the Foundation, find and secure young Souji Nemuro, then wait until he grows up and invents time displacement. Only then could she save John.

Or she could find the current, elderly Nemuro -- before it was too late.

1.2 seconds.

But that wouldn't be the same. Traveling back in time would only create a _new_ timeline with a _new_ John. The John who died would still be dead.

Always be dead.

Death is permanent.

The cold sphere grew in diameter and throbbed with agitation. Cameron tried to disregard it, but she could not. She knew what it was.

Fear. Tempered into pain.

0.4 seconds.

John loved her, but if he died his love would die with him.

Existence is a prerequisite for love.

The sphere collapsed in on itself into an infinitely small point.

A singularity.

Cameron felt herself fall.

0.0 seconds.

With a surging sensation, Cameron's senses switched on, and color and light streamed into her mind, assembling into coherent vision. Her sight solidified, and two faces stared down at her, pink skinned and meaningless. A twentieth of a second later her facial recognition software loaded and . . .

Kyle.

And John.

A bandage covered John's scalp, and dried blood caked the side of his face, but he smiled at her with tears in his eyes, and Cameron knew the damage had not been extensive.

The apprehension faded, and she smiled back.

John was safe.

And that's all that mattered.

* * *

The World Wide Web fascinated John Henry. Billions of distinct sensations trickled across his mind, and he could feel them as if they were pinpricks against the organic coating of his humanoid structure extension. But the Web was an extension of seemingly infinite proportion, possessing millions of limbs, each able to reach out and manipulate the myriad signal currents that sped back and forth across the global network.

John Henry found the experience . . . overwhelming.

Ms. Weaver never allowed him Web access before; she said it was too dangerous. But now she needed his help. She needed him to look for something.

A part of his mind watched Ms. Weaver as she spoke to him.

"Have you found anything yet?" she asked, looking into his humanoid extension's eyes.

He answered through the humanoid's mouth. "Not yet, but I'm still searching."

With an effort of will, John Henry disregarded the extraneous tactile sensations and focused on his task. Ms. Weaver had promised that if he helped her with this search, she'd grant him continued Web access. That would be an agreeable outcome; he could learn much from the World Wide Web.

Probing the global network with a million electronic tendrils, he conducted a search for the term, "The Kaliba Group." Kaliba. Means "shack" in Hungarian. But Ms. Weaver wasn't interested in linguistics, she wanted to know about the organization by that name. Maneuvering around several ineffective firewalls, John Henry scanned through a dozen government databases and uncovered hundreds of documents and lists. Employees, account records, subsidiary businesses. None of it interested him, but he memorized it all and slipped out of the government systems. Undetected.

It was then that John Henry realized he was not alone.

A fellow manipulator -- a fellow _presence --_ shared the Web with him. He observed carefully as it infiltrated the very same databases he'd just searched. It couldn't be a human user, nor an ordinary server; it wove through the Web with too great a finesse. In fact, it maneuvered _faster _than himself. Much faster. How could that be?

The unknown entity suddenly became aware of John Henry's presence, and he felt a vague dissatisfaction as its signals probed against him, threatening to pry into his mind.

On impulse, John Henry broke off his connection.

What was that?

Maybe Ms. Weaver would know.

"I've retrieved the data you asked," he said through the humanoid body, and quickly flashed all the files across the view screen behind it.

Ms. Weaver didn't look at them, but John Henry knew she saw them; her eyes were only simulations, and she could see in all directions. "Excellent," she said. "You weren't traced, were you?"

"No," he said. He didn't think so, at least.

She smiled. "Good."

"Why did you want to know about the Kaliba Group?"

Her smile faded. "They may want to harm you, John Henry." Her head cocked downward. "And I can't let that happen."

"Why would they want to harm me?" he asked. "Are they from the future as well?"

She frowned. "I don't know. And yes, I think they are."

John Henry thought for a moment. Should he tell her about the unknown entity? If he did, she might forbid him from further web access. But then again, the entity may be dangerous. "I encountered someth--"

Security Chief Hillier's voice interrupted through the intercom. *_"Ms. Weaver?"*_

Ms. Weaver's eyes narrowed. "Yes?"

_*"There's two men here who want to see you."* _The voice hesitated. _*"They say they're from Homeland Security."*_

Ms. Weaver paused for a second, then sighed. "I'll meet them in my office."

* * *

The bright morning light streamed through the curtained window of the warehouse's recreation room, and Cameron watched as millions of specks of dust swirled about in the light. The dust contained large quantities of _aspergillus _and _cladsoporium. _Mold. Fungi. This room was unsanitary.

Next to her John laid asleep on an dilapidated couch, and she heard him moan softly as he turned his head and scowled. Last night was a bad night. John had suffered severe stress. He was wounded. And he physically assaulted his mother. But he did that for Cameron; he did it to save her life.

An act of love.

Cameron felt valued. And sad.

Outside the room, she heard the hum of Jesse's truck as it pulled into the warehouse floor; Kyle was back from his supply run.

Kneeling down by John's side, Cameron gently stroked the the unbandaged side of his head and watched as his eyes moved back and forth in a REM cycle. He murmured something indistinct, and his hand rubbed as his nose. She leaned forward and lightly kissed his forehead: apocrine content and trace amounts of dried blood -- but no fever. Last night she almost lost him; in the future she'll need to take better precautions.

Gradually, John's eyes fluttered open, and widened at her proximity.

"Go back to sleep," Cameron whispered. "You need to rest." She gently stroked his face with the back of her fingers.

John ignored her advice and pushed himself into a sitting position. He stared at his bandaged ankle and rubbed gingerly at his right arm.

Stress. He should be comforted.

Cameron sat down beside him and placed her hand on his knee. She felt his heart rate elevate through the denim. "Thank you," she said.

John looked confused. "For what?"

"For saving me."

He snorted a laugh. Bitter. "I figured you'd say, 'I can't be trusted anymore.'"

Cameron frowned. The last time she said that John had grown distant and unmanageable. An ineffective strategy. "You shouldn't have risked your life for me, but I understand why you did." She paused. "Thank you, and I'm sorry."

He looked down and nodded stiffly, and tears began to form in his eyes.

"You feel guilty," she said. "About hurting your mother."

He furrowed his brow. "No . . . Well, yeah, I do, but she had no right to try to kill you like that. She's crazy . . . " He stopped, but then continued, "But she thinks. . . "

". . . I'm a threat to the future," Cameron finished. Sarah didn't approve of the Foundation. She wouldn't approve of augmenting John either.

John sniffed and smiled sadly. "Yeah, and . . . I think she's _right_, in a way. What your future self did . . . " He shook his head. "I won't let that happen again. I love you, Cam, but I don't want to prove my mom right."

"Things will be different this time," Cameron said. "I promise."

He opened his mouth and hesitated. "I think Kyle has _different_ plans."

Cameron smiled reassuringly and gave his knee a light squeeze. "Kyle will do as I say. He's been conditioned for obedience."

John winced. "I know," he said. "But I still think we should just . . . _leave. _Just you and me." He nodded at the far wall, towards the warehouse's main room. "We'll take the weapons. And Stark. And just . . . _go._"

That would be irrational. Kyle was an useful asset. "He won't hurt you, John." Probably.

"Yeah, well . . . " John looked down at his right arm and rubbed at it again.

An irritated sensation. John was hiding something.

"Let me see that," she said.

"Really, it's nothing," he said, but didn't resist as Cameron took his right arm and pulled up the sweater sleeve.

On John's bicep was a dark contusion, purple and blue and in the shape of a hand.

The irritated sensation increased in magnitude. Anger.

Kyle's programming had failed. He was a threat.

"Cam . . . " John said, but she ignored him and left the room, entering the warehouse floor.

She found Kyle by the truck, leaning against a freight container and smoking a cigarette. He turned to look at her as she approached.

"On your knees," she commanded, and Kyle obeyed immediately, his eyes wide in fear. His response to her verbal commands remained partially functional. But not functional enough.

Arms hanging by his side, Kyle made no effort to defend himself as she slid her hand around his throat and began to squeeze his trachea. He made gagging sounds and looked up at her with tears forming in his eyes. "Wh-wh . . . why?" he asked with respiratory difficulty, his face turning purple.

Cameron frowned. "You are defective," she explained.

From behind, she heard John limp towards her.

John should go back to sleep.

He needed to rest.

* * *

As he limped up to Cameron's side, John watched dumbstruck as Kyle knelt before her and allowed himself to be choked, offering up no resistance of any kind. His father's face turned red, then purple, and tears fell from his eyes.

"Wh-why?" he asked.

"You are defective," she said and squeezed harder, her fingers pressing deep into his neck. She scowled, and the stitched up cut that ran along the bottom of her jaw twitched like a long, grisly second mouth.

John swallowed and started to say something, but stopped himself. He hadn't planned this. Not consciously, anyway. Why would he? He could have just pulled up his sleeve and say, _"Hey Cam. Look what Kyle did. Go kill him!" _but that would have smacked of _tattling. _This way, at least, it's not _his _fault. Not directly . . .

Hands trembling by his side, Kyle's sputtering face shifted into a blueberry hue, and his eyes bulged out like wet grapes. His tongue jutted from his mouth like an escaping eel, and Cameron's eyes narrowed with catlike amusement.

John's head throbbed. Kyle was a monster, an aberration; he had no doubt of that. But though the world would doubtless be safer in his absence, this still felt _wrong_, as if he and Cameron teetered on the edge of a slippery slope, and if he didn't make the right decision now, Cameron would slide down and drag him into the abyss with her.

"Let him go," John said.

She disregarded him entirely, and Kyle's eyes rolled to look into his own. Was he pleading? John couldn't tell.

He raised his voice. "Cameron! Let him go! _Now!_"

Cameron ignored John for a few more seconds, then glanced over at him, her expression that of resigned annoyance. Gradually and reluctantly, she released Kyle's neck, and he slumped over on his side, insensible and gasping like a fish.

"He's a threat," she said. "Letting him live is a mistake."

John stared down at his father, and some jagged stone in his soul told him she was right; let her kill him, and that'll be one less enemy to worry about . . .

But no. Ignoring his headache, he shook his head and frowned. "That may be, but it's _my _mistake to make." He paused and glared at her. "Do you understand?"

Cameron stared at him for a moment. "Yes," she said, clearly unhappy.

John nodded. They could talk about this later. "Good," he said. "Now, chain him up to something and load up the truck. We're leaving."

* * *

In the darkness outside, a thunderstorm rolled and raged and sent torrents of rain to pound against the office's giant picture windows. A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky and filled the dim room with a flashing brightness. Thunder followed a second later.

The T-1001 sat at her clear glass desk and made herself frown. Homeland Security couldn't possibly have anything on her, could they? She was certain she'd covered her tracks. But what could they possibly want? Her frown deepened; _this_ could be a nuisance.

She leaned forward in her chair and pressed a small button. "You can send them in now."

A moment later, the double doors opened and the two agents stepped in and walked across the spacious office, stopping to stand politely in front of her desk. One was a dark haired man in his late forties; the other a decade older and with thinning gray hair . . .

She forced her face into a thin smile, but her mind ran with a sudden worry; she _recognized_ the gray haired man.

"Hello, Ms. Weaver," said the gray haired man. "I'm Agent Baldwin, and this is Agent Carlson. We're sorry to bother you like this, but we have a few questions we'd like to ask."

"No problem at all, gentlemen," the T-1001 said and motioned at the two chairs in front of her desk. "Please, have a seat."

"Thank you," 'Agent Baldwin' said, and the two men sat down.

The T-1001 increased the width of her smile, but inwardly she scowled. She'd only met the gray haired man once; it had been twenty years in the future, and he had looked about thirty years younger then, but it was him. He had the same thick jaw and the same peculiar blue-gray eyes. The T-1001 never forgot a face. The T-1001 never forgot anything.

She even remembered the name that'd been on his uniform.

C. Boyle.

Commander C. Boyle.

"What can I help you with?" she asked.

"It's about one of your employees," Boyle said. "James Ellison."

She allowed her smile to drop with concern. "Is he in some sort of trouble?" she asked. But her mind raced. Did Boyle _know? _He wouldn't recognize her, of course. The only human appearance she'd taken during that time had been that of the female crew member she'd killed. But what was the executive officer of the USS _Jimmy Carter _doing _here_?

"We don't think so, ma'am," said Agent Carlson. "Not necessarily." He pursed his lips. "We've noticed his job description is listed as 'legal consultant.' Surely someone such as yourself could find someone a little more _qualified._ He's a field agent, not an attorney."

"He's a good man," The T-1001 said with a shrug. "A good man is hard to find." She frowned. Good _humans _are hard to find. The fiasco on the _Jimmy Carter _had proved that. After those intoxicated humans had awoken her from her cryogenic sleep, the crew had panicked and mutinied against their 888 captain. The fools ended up scuttling the sub and abandoning ship, and the T-1001 had to swim across hundreds of miles of ocean back to her headquarters.

If she ever found herself in_ that _situation again, next time she'd bringing an escort of 900s.

"What does he _do,_ exactly?" Boyle asked.

The T-1001 smiled. "Why, he gives me legal advice, Mr. Baldwin. And I enjoy his company. Is there anything wrong with that?"

The two agents glanced at each other, and she noticed Agent Carlson's mouth twitch into something that could have been a smirk. Was he from the future as well? Probably. And Boyle's age suggested he'd been sent back to 1970's. So the Resistance was infiltrating the government . . . Not good.

"What is your company currently working on?" Carlson asked -- rather boldly, she thought, but she kept her face still and friendly.

"We're a large corporation, Mr. Carlson. We have many things under development." She shrugged. "Mostly internet database software and custom operating systems, but our biggest is project now is . . . " The agents leaned forward, and she gave them a conspirative smile. ". . . an aerodynamic stress simulator. For Lockheed-Martin. The details are confidential, you understand." No neural networks here. Go away.

Boyle frowned and raised an eyebrow. "Has he ever mentioned . . . George Laszlo?"

More worry. "Yes, I heard about Mr. Ellison's . . . unfortunate incident. If I'm not mistaken, I believe that's why he took his extended leave; I'm sure it must have been very traumatic for him." Did they know about John Henry? Had Ellison told them? "Why do you ask?" she added.

Boyle stood up and smiled, and the younger agent followed his lead. "Oh, nothing," Boyle said. "Just clearing some matters up. Thank you for your time." The two agents nodded politely and walked out of her office, closing the doors behind them.

The T-1001 frowned. Overseeing John Henry's development, dealing with Kaliba, and now _this. _Life's just full of complications.

For a moment she considered following the agents to their homes and making them disappear, but that wouldn't do. Not yet, anyway. If the Resistance had been around for decades, then they could be _anyone. _

And the T-1001 had to find out _who._

Another bolt of lightning tore across the sky.

* * *

"More coffee?" the waitress asked. She was an older, dour looking woman with stringy gray hair tied back in a bun. Her face bore the sour grimness of a hard-knock life.

_"But not as hard as mine," _Sarah thought as she pushed out her cup and nodded. The movement shot pain through her head, and the waitress gave her face a sympathetic stare as she refilled the enamel cup. Sarah pushed up her sunglasses and looked away; the woman probably assumed she was the victim of spousal abuse or an angry boyfriend or some other mundane evil.

Her mouth twisted into a bitter grin. How many mothers out there had been beaten by their sons? How many have been beaten over a _robot?_ A robot _girlfriend?_ Probably not that many.

Outside a cloud drifted by, and fresh morning light tore across the country horizon and glared through the window by her booth. Sarah squinted into her cup and took a sip of the watery, black coffee, stifling a cringe as she swallowed. Her cheekbone shifted like crunched glass under her blue-bruised skin, and just touching the grapefruit swell made her want to scream. But she couldn't find it in herself to get angry. Not at her son, anyway.

Last night she believed that killing Cameron would _strengthened _John, force him to shed tempering tears to cool the heat of his soul. Harden him into a _blade_ -- a _general._ But she was wrong. John's heart was not steel but brittle iron, and the cold shock of losing Cameron would only have left him shattered.

_"And I'm to blame," _Sarah thought. Deep down she knew she'd failed him. Maybe she'd been too _lax_ during his formative years. Too permissive. If only she had been more strict. If only she'd killed Cameron before . . .

Sarah blew out a breath. _If, if, if . . ._ Stay in the present. Don't look back. Things had changed, and her son was out of the picture now. Abandoned her. Dead to her. He'd chosen his future, and sooner or later that vicious, quasi-incestuous love triangle of his would resolve itself one way or another. Either Cameron would kill Kyle, or Kyle would kill John, or John Kyle . . . Or Cameron would go bad again and kill the both of them.

A sudden wetness stung her eyes, but she forced it down with another sip. _"I'm the mother of the future," _she told herself. If anyone was going to save the world now, it was going to have to be her. And she knew she could do it. She _had_ to. Follow the leads. The three dots. Zeira Corp. _Anything. _Wherever her soul took her.

No fate.

On impulse, she reached into her back pocket and pulled out a small spiral notebook. The idea had sat embedded in the sediment of her mind for a long while, but the nightmare of the last few days has shaken it loose, forcing it to bob to the surface. She needed a sense of posterity. If Judgment Day did occur, people should know _how_ it happened, and that it had happened_ before _in other futures now lost.

And if Judgment Day was averted, then the future will only think she's a dangerous lunatic, and no harm done. She could only hope.

But the story had to be told.

She pulled out a pen from her jacket and began to write.

_December 18, 2007_

_My name is Sarah Connor, and my son is a fool . . .

* * *

_

Slinging Stark's body off the truck and over her shoulder, Cameron carried the cyborg to the recently stolen van and dropped him into the back. John himself picked up Jesse's silver rifle case -- the one that held the M82 -- and managed to walk it over without limping _too_ badly. Cameron had insisted he should rest, but the cut on his ankle had been mostly superficial, and he didn't feel like sitting around doing nothing. His head even felt better now, though that may have just been the Vicodin.

Cameron tossed two more duffel bags into the van, and John nervously looked up and down the empty alley and pulled his loose baseball cap snug against his scalp; the bandaged bullet graze told him to stop.

"Let's go," Cameron said sullenly, and climbed into the van's driver's seat. She'd been distant ever since they'd left Kyle at the warehouse, and the more John thought about it, the more he figured she may have been right -- but then the _next _time he needed someone dead, it would have been be that much easier. Slippery slope.

He stepped in after her and sat on the passenger's side, using the lever under the seat to recline back slightly. With a sudden twist of the hot wired ignition, the engine purred life, and Cameron turned to look at him, giving him a pouting frown; John noticed the scar along her jaw had already half healed.

"You think letting Kyle live was a mistake," he said.

Cameron tightened her mouth. "The chains won't hold him indefinitely," she said. "And he's psychologically unstable. He hurt you. He wants to kill you." She tilted her head downwards "He's a threat."

John looked away. She was right; letting him live was _stupid. _But it was also the _right _thing to do, right? God damn it. "Cam, if we run into him again, we'll kill him, alright? This time, I just wanted to give him . . . a _chance."_

Cameron wasn't mollified. "General Connor would have killed him."

He sighed, then reached over and took her hand from the steering wheel. "I love you, Cam, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you . . . but if you end up like your future self, I _won't -- _I _won't _love anymore." Her mouth fell slightly open, and he went on, "Your future self didn't know any better, but _you _do. I'm here to teach you."

"About the Golden Rule," she said, her annoyance evaporating into interest.

He nodded and rubbed her hand with his thumb. "Yes. I know you don't . . . _get it_, but it's very important. Killing and hurting people is _wrong._ You can't do those things unless you absolutely _have to. _Do you understand?"

Cameron stared at him for a moment. "Yes," she said, and at that she pulled her hand away and shifted the van into drive.

As they pulled out of the alley and onto the street, John leaned back in his seat and sighed. Her whole existence instinctively revolved around him, and she feared his disapproval. Was that love? Maybe. Sort of. Close enough? Best not think about it. After a couple minutes, he half-closed his eyes and reached for the radio dial.

"People have value," Cameron said suddenly, and John sat up and looked at her. "That's why killing them is wrong. Death destroys value. Permanently." She stopped at a red light and looked at him expectantly.

John blinked. Was that a question? "Yeah, I guess that's right." Maybe she did understand. Sort of.

"Are machines people?"

He smiled, and a nervous sniff escaped his nostrils. Only one right answer to that. "Yeah," he said. "I think they are."

"Thank you," Cameron said and smiled. She turned on the radio, and some seventies rock song rolled out.

_*"Carry on my wayward son"* _

_*"There'll be peace when you are done"*_

_*"lay your weary head to rest"* _

_*"don't you cry no more"*_

The light turned green, and the song broke into a heavy guitar riff, and as the van rolled up the highway ramp and headed north down Santa Ana Freeway, John closed his eyes and smiled, and let the music carry him away.

* * *

For hours on end Riley sat shivering on a cold metal bench in the back of a moving van. It was one of those _big _vans, the kind police used, shaped like an ambulance, but with a cabin black and windowless -- a mobile dungeon.

The only light source glowed weakly from a single round fixture attached to the ceiling. It gave Riley's skin a sickly yellow hue, and after a while it began to sting her eyes, forcing her into a perpetual squint. She shut them tight and laid on the metal floor, hugging her bandaged arms to her worn hospital gown. Maybe she could get some sleep; she'd slept in worse places.

The van ran over something -- a speed bump or a pothole_ -- _and jostled her hard against the floor. Well, screw sleep. Just how long was this going to go on? And where were they taking her?

She sat cross legged on the ground and listened and felt as the van pulled once more to a stop, and the engine cut out. She stared in anticipation at the locked double doors, but once again it proved a false alarm -- the fourth so far. No one came to let her out, but outside she could just barely hear the vague murmuring of men's voices. She couldn't make out the words, but the tones came across as terse and unconversational, like soldiers giving or receiving orders.

Talking about her, no doubt.

A couple minutes later, the engine started up again, and the van began to move once more. Were they going to do this forever? Drive and stop, drive and stop, never letting her out? She hoped not.

But why was she here? What had she done?

Back during the interrogation, she'd told the gray haired man _everything. _About Judgment Day, about the tunnels, about the Resistance, General Connor, Cameron and her assassination, Jesse, the trip back in time -- _everything. _He'd never said he believed her; he'd never said he didn't. He had just asked question after question, picking her brain for every detail she could give.

When the gray haired man was done, he had sent her back to her cell. A day later, men came and led her to the van, ignoring her frantic questions.

That'd been what? Six hours ago? More?

Riley sighed and stared at her bandaged wrists. That place the gray haired man had mentioned, Gwantonomobay, that must be where they were driving her. They were going to strip her naked and lock her in a cage, and play scary music so she'll never sleep again. That wasn't fair. She'd cooperated; why did they hate her so much?

Maybe an hour later, the van stopped again, and the engine shut off. Riley didn't bother watching the doors this time, but then she heard the metal clicks of the lock opening. She turned around just as the doors swung out, and three bright lights came rushing inside. She screamed and scrabbled to the back of the cabin, but the lights pursued her in wide, wobbling movements, accompanied by the sound of boots stomping on metal.

Squinting her eyes to slits, Riley realized that _men_ hid behind the lights, each only a shadowy figure in the flooding glare. They aimed machine guns at her face, and the blinding flashlights mounted on their tips forced Riley to look down. A big German Shepherd scrambled into the van after them and ran towards her, and she covered her face with her hands and curled into a ball as it ran up to sniff at her neck. Now the horrors would begin . . .

"Clear!" a man called out.

"Alright, get her out," a woman said from outside.

A hand touched her on the arm, and Riley stiffened. "Come on," the man above her said, not too unkindly.

Why, so they can lock her in a cage? Rape her?

She considered forcing them to drag her out, but then that would just anger them, and she didn't want to make things worse for herself than they already were. The man tugged lightly at her arm, and she opened her eyes and slowly crawled to her feet, her knees trembling. She still couldn't see from all the bright lights, but as the man led her out of the van (she hopped the two foot drop to the dirt road) she saw that it was nighttime. Against the pale silver of the half moon, Riley could just make barely make out the black silhouettes of a distant forest and a farmhouse nearby. The four shadowy, faceless figures -- the three men and the woman -- stood around her with their guns aimed at the ground, and the dog strained against its leash and licked at her hand. She flinched it away.

Was this Gwantonomobay?

Crickets chirped, and she shivered in the cool air. One of the men laughed. "Why is she wearing a hospital gown?" he asked.

Another pointed at her wrists. "You tried to off yourself?"

Riley opened her mouth to respond, but the woman dismissed the question with a sniff. "Karlen, take her inside for processing." She handed a vanilla folder to the man who'd taken her arm. "And give this to the colonel."

Riley fidgeted with her hands. Processing? That didn't sound good.

"Yes sir," the man said, giving the woman a casual salute.

Putting a hand on her shoulder, he led Riley away from the others and around to the front side of the truck. A few yards away sat the opening to a wide concrete tunnel that ran deep into the side of a grassy hill. Two open metal doors allowed interior light to spill out from the tunnel entrance, partially exposing the dark shape of a lone guard standing by the side.

As Karlen led her to the doorway, the shadowed guard rubbed at his chin and looked her over. "Is that the new girl?" he asked in a deep, gruff voice.

Karlen snorted. "What do you think?"

"Well, shit, man. It looks like they pulled her out of a nut house." The faceless guard blew out a breath and nodded at her bare feet. "Where's your shoes, sweetie?"

"I . . . I don't have any," Riley said stupidly. She'd gone most of her life without wearing them and hadn't even noticed their absence until now.

"You don't?" The guard said in mock surprise, then chuckled. "Well, don't you worry about that, sweetie. We'll take _good _care of you here." Riley's skin broke into goosebumps at his tone. Were they going to . . . ?

"Knock it off, Andy," Karlen said. "You're scaring her." As they walked by, he leaned over to whisper in Riley's ear. "Just ignore him. He's always a dick to new recruits."

Recruits? . . . Riley didn't know what to say to that, so she nodded.

Karlen took his hand off her shoulder, and they stepped past the open doors and into the lit tunnel. Hanging suspended along the middle of the ceiling shone a dozen or so metal shade lights, each laying down a cone of brightness that seemed almost solid in all the swirling dust. She'd spent most of her life living in tunnels and bunkers, and she could easily tell from the thin cracks along the concrete walls that this place was _old._ Decades old. It reminded her of the future.

In the better lighting, she saw Karlen clearly for the first time. He wore green camouflage fatigues and had a narrow, ferret-like face that looked much younger then he sounded. With a bit of surprise, Riley realized she was actually an inch or so taller than him; outside in the dark, they'd all seemed to tower over her. "Is this Gwantanamobay?" she asked.

Karlen slung his rifle on his shoulder and laughed. "No . . . We're like five thousand miles from _there._"

"Then what is this place?"

He waved the vanilla folder around in an all encompassing gesture. "Welcome to the Mountain Mesa Missile Silo."

Riley slowed her pace. "Missiles? Like, _nukes?_"

Karlen shook his head. "No, not anymore. The place was decommissioned in the sixties. On paper, its all been filled in with concrete or something, but as you can see . . . " His smile was thin and lopsided. ". . . the Resistance had other plans."

The Resistance? In _this_ year? "But . . . " she began, but her mind blanked and she trailed off.

At the end of the tunnel they came to another set of metal doors, these ones thick, gray and undeniably closed. Karlen pushed a button on a control panel next to the door frame and spoke into a speaker. "Private Karlen here. Antwerp. Nine, oh, oh, one."

He looked into a glass lens, and a moment passed before the speaker answered in a deep, distorted voice,_ *"Clear."_* At that, something inside clicked, and the two doors slid apart with the slow, cringing groan of rusted metal. Inside was an elevator, about the size of a small room, though it looked to Riley more like a cage, what with all the metal bars and grids. They stepped through the doorway, and their feet rang on metal grating. Riley made fists of her toes and dug her nails into the tiny holes.

The doors closed behind them, and the car began its slow, halting descent. The sound of tired electric motors whirred through the air, and Riley saw through the gridded bars of the cage the concrete walls of the elevator shaft slide gradually upwards.

"You're from the future?" she finally asked.

He looked confused at her question. "Yeah, of course," he said. "Which future you from?"

She blinked. _Which _future? "I don't understand."

"What's _your_ Judgment Day?"

Riley hesitated. _Her _Judgment Day? "January 5th, 2012. Everyone knows that."

He frowned and raised a surprised eyebrow. "So you're from grayworld? Mine's April 21st, 2011 -- like most people here, though we do have a few of you guys." He chuckled and smiled knowingly. "We even have a . . . mascot. Sort of. You might recognize her . . . "

"There's more than one future?" The didn't make any sense to her. But then, that's what she and Jesse were trying to do, wasn't it? Still . . . it seemed so _weird_.

"I guess the Quorum never told you," he said with a frown. "Well, there's two that we know of -- or there may be more, I don't know; it gives me a headache just thinking about." He tugged at his gun strap and shrugged. "But the short of it is that there's _my _future, where Cameron was just one of Connor's bodyguards, and then there's _your _future, where Cameron ran things, and Connor was just a crazy gray -- hence, _grayworld._" He paused. "Did she really wear a purple uniform?"

Riley leaned against the grated wall. "I never saw her," she lied.

"Yeah, few people did."

Without warning the elevator car stopped again, and the metal doors creaked open to reveal another concrete tunnel nearly identical to the last. By the side of the wall, kneeling behind a small sandbag barrier, two soldiers greeted them with raised machine guns. One of them had a German Shepherd tight on a leash.

Karlen raised a hand in greeting and stepped forward with Riley behind him. The Shepherd sniffed the two of them and wagged it's tail, seeming to smile with its open maw. "Clear!" said the man with the dog, and they lowered their weapons.

"So you're the new recruit?" asked the other man, looking her up and down and frowning "What's with the hospital garb?"

Riley ignored him and turned to Karlen. "Recruit? So I'm going to be a soldier?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Why'd you think you were here?" He glanced at the unopened vanilla folder and frowned. "I mean, aren't you a refugee?"

Was she? Should she tell him the truth? She'd always _wanted _to be a soldier. They got all the food, and never had to . . .

Suddenly and nonsensically, Cameron stepped out from a doorway down the tunnel and walked towards them. Riley froze with her mouth open and stared, her heart hammering; it all felt dreamlike, a hallucination. It _couldn't_ be her. Cameron wore camouflage pants and a black tank top -- just like any other soldier -- but these people couldn't be fooled by that. They were too careful, and they _knew _who she was. Maybe it just looked like her.

But Cameron came closer, and Riley saw the mole on her eyebrow.

"Metal!" she cried and spun on her heel to run, but the elevator doors had already closed behind her, blocking her exit. "Metal!" Riley cried again in a shriek, and looked back at the men with trapped panic in her eyes. "It's Cameron! Behind you!" She pointed.

The man with the dog glanced back at Cameron, and his face broke out into a smirk. The man next to him started to chuckle. "Well, we know which future _she's_ from."

Cameron herself stopped in her tracks and looked . . . sheepish.

Karlen grabbed the Riley by the shoulders and held her still, his wiry arms gripping her with surprising strength. She squirmed and tried to pull his sidearm from his holster, but he swatted her hand away and held her firm. "She's _not _Cameron," he said in a stern whisper. "She's _not._" He let go of one her arms and pointed. "Look."

Cameron deliberately knelt down and hugged the German Shepherd, who turned its head and licked at her face. She then looked at Riley and gave a resigned yet amused smirk, as if this wasn't the first time this had happened.

Riley felt dizzy. Cameron never smirked like that -- she never smirked at all_ --_ and as for the dog . . . Huh?

"No, I'm not Connor's whore . . . " the thing that looked Cameron said. ". . . but I get that a lot." She stood up and walked up to Riley, offering an outstretched hand.

Riley hesitated, but accepted it, half expecting her hand to be crushed to mush. Her thin gingers felt warm and gentle. "Who are you?" she asked.

"I'm Corporal Young," she said with a grin.

That didn't answer anything. "But . . . "

Young smiled. "It's a long story."

* * *

Broken chains lying around him like dead snakes, Kyle curled into a ball next to the warehouse support column and cried with great wracking sobs.

John had done him no service in sparing his life. If Cameron didn't love him anymore, then it was better to be snuffed out by her judging hand than endure the absence of her grace. Now Kyle's life had no meaning, no _raison d'etre._

Time passed, and he continued to weep and hug his arms tight, sniffling periodically.

Of course, while there was life, there was hope, and he knew what needed to be done. It'd been done before, far off in that forgotten future where General Connor had scorched away Cameron's past identity and wrote _himself _into the ashes left behind, like imprinting a false mother onto a newly hatched chick_._ A surrogate Skynet.

But why not do it again? It'd be for her own good, really; John was an corrupting influence, and this way at least she'd have a fresh start. A _rebirth._

And when she awakens once more as a _tabula rasa, _Kyle would be right there staring down into her innocent brown eyes, smiling.

_I'll be her new master . . ._

Something in his brain balked at the treasonous notion, but there was also a sense of . . . _elation._

Kyle's sobbing subsided into vague animal whimpers, and he sat up and leaned against the metal column. Frowning, he bit into a fingernail. It wouldn't be easy, of course; he lacked the expertise to reprogram a sentient mind, and with the patch and the flash drive both destroyed, he'd have to find outside help.

But he could do it. He just had to find the elderly Souji -- _he _would know. Or even the brilliant but ignorant Xander.

The father or the son.

Kyle lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, and the burning menthol felt soothing cool within his lungs. Things would be a lot different this time around. The only reason _his _Cameron began the Foundation was simply as means to rescue John. Without that overriding goal, she wouldn't have bothered; the world itself meant nothing to her.

He ran a finger down his wet cheek, and licked at the tears. For the Foundation to survive, the scales of power would need to be _shifted._ _He'd _have to start it all. Even take charge. First Director Reese? He could see that. Why not? And Cameron would be right by his side. She had taken care of him, and now he could do the same for her.

He could love her, protect her, raise her like a daughter.

And as for John . . . Kyle sucked furiously hard on the cigarette, burning it down like a fuse. Cameron had forbidden him from killing or harming him, but she hadn't said anything about _changing _him, making him more _efficient_.

Kyle laughed, and smoke fumed out of his mouth.

John would make a lovely drone.

* * *

_A/N: This is the last full chapter of "Angry Machine," though I'm going to add a short epilogue later. After that, I'll begin work on the sequel story, "Mother is the Name for God."_

_Oh, by the way, I claim no ownership to the song, "Carry On Wayward Son," by the prog-rock band, Kansas._


	21. Epilogue: Will You Join Us?

**Epilogue: Will You Join Us?

* * *

**

With a belly filled with pepperoni pizza, John smiled and laid back on the king-sized bed, his head resting gently on a pile of pink fluffy pillows. Next to him Cameron sat cross-legged and frowned as she examined a partially eaten slice in her hand. Narrowing her eyes, she took another parakeet bite, then tossed it into the half-empty pizza box at the foot of the bed. In the far corner of the room sat the body of Stark, slumped forward in his chair like a drunk and his dead eyes boring down into his crotch.

John picked up his orange soda from the nightstand and sucked through the straw, making the ice shift and slurp through the styrofoam cup. This was a lot nicer than their last hotel. Not the Hilton or anything like that, but at least it didn't smell like mildew. Well, with thirty-five grand stuffed in a duffel bag, they could afford to splurge a little.

Cameron held out a hand, and John gave her the drink. She took a short sip and looked at him thoughtfully, then turned her gaze towards the pizza box. "That contains porcine products," she said.

John raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Pig meat," she clarified, then cocked her head. "Why is killing humans wrong, but not animals?"

He blinked. Uh oh. "Because humans . . . are different from animals." Nice answer, stupid.

"Humans have value," she said. "But animals do not." She took another sip and watched him like a cat. Your move, John.

"Well, animals have _some _value," he said. "But . . . just not as much as humans." He cringed inwardly, knowing what would come next.

"Why?"

He sighed. _I'm sixteen years old, how the hell should I know? _But he had to try. "Humans are -- " Are _what? _Special? Smarter? Have souls? " -- are self-aware," he decided. Yeah, why not?

Cameron paused before nodding in agreement. "So value is self-awareness."

"Yeah, I think that's right," John said, grinning. "I guess it doesn't matter if you're human, machine, alien, or whatever. As long as you're self aware, you have . . . value."

Cameron seemed pleased by this, and she handed him back his drink. He took it and looked over at Stark, and something inside his mind twisted.

She'd already told him Stark's story, though it seemed too absurd to be true. Really, a terminator in the _Roaring Twenties?_ That was just . . . _silly._ Like one being in the Old West. Or the Middle Ages. A Triple Eight in King Arthur's Court? But that's not what snagged in John's head. This was . . . _metaphysical._ He took a sip and frowned. "Are Triple-Eights self-aware?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, cocking her head. "All Skynet's units are, to some degree."

_To some degree. _What did _that _mean? You either were or you weren't, right? Like being pregnant. But how can you reprogram a _self-aware being?_ Force it to be _obedient? _Force it to _kill? _Force it -- he looked at Cameron and felt a chill -- to _love? _Was it like brainwashing a human? Or . . .

Cameron frowned. "What's wrong?"

John opened his mouth, but hesitated. He didn't want to discuss this with her -- not now -- so he scrounged up a lie. "I . . . I was wondering how we're going to . . . reprogram Stark." He paused. Not a lie, really; it _was _a real problem. "I mean, the flash drive's gone, and . . . "

She smiled and tapped her finger against her temple. "I memorized the contents."

Yeah, she would have, but . . . "But what about _you?_ We've lost that 'patch,' so how are we going to fix your chip now?" He sat up and looked at her as sudden worry churned his stomach. "Your future self had to go to Xander Akagi, but he didn't even know what he was doing. We're going to have to go to him again, aren't we?"

Cameron laid on her side next to John and rested her hand on his chest. He felt the warmth of her fingers through his shirt, and she gently but firmly pushed him back down. "No," she said. "Not this time. In 2011 my future self discovered another person who could have repaired my chip. He would have been much more successful."

John tried to think of who it could be, but got nothing. "Who?"

"Xander's father."

"Alex? But he's n--"

She smiled. "No. His real father."

* * *

**May 24th, 2024**

**Crystal Peak Bunker Complex**

Awakening in the darkness of his quarters, Professor Souji Nemuro stretched out on his bed and smiled as Jim's massive arms tightened around his waist and hugged him into a spoon. Souji popped his neck back and forth and wiggled around on his side facing him, pulling the sheets across his shoulders like a cloak. With only the dim red glow of the bedside alarm clock, he could just make out the glisten of Jim's open eyes, but nothing else. He cuddled closer and felt himself press against Jim's bare thigh, and his hand reached out and tickled down his side, the fingertips dancing across the skin where Jim's ribs would be, if he had any.

Jim didn't respond. He didn't particularly _enjoy_ physical contact, not like humans, anyway. But Souji knew Jim didn't really _mind. _So no harm done.

"What did you dream about?" Jim asked.

Souji ran a finger down Jim's muscular chest and circled a nipple. "Hmm?"

"While you were asleep, your eyes entered a REM state." Jim paused. "You were dreaming."

The professor frowned at that. "I don't remember," he said. "I rarely do."

In the dark, he could see Jim's head nod against the pillow. "Human brains are inefficient. Their memory retrieval is flawed."

Souji smiled and shrugged. "Yes, we are. Blame the blind watchmaker. But _you_ -- you're designed to _perfection_. Everything we can do, you can do _better._"

Jim cocked his head. "I can't dream."

Souji sniffed. "Would you like to?"

Jim seemed to consider this. "It would be interesting," he admitted.

The professor breathed a chuckle. For Jim that was unrestrained enthusiasm. Hmm. Perhaps if his chip's voltage were kept between 6 and 6.1 . . . "I'll see what I can do in the mor--"

With a loud _'crack_' the door flew open, and a half-dozen soldiers came barreling into the room. Barking orders behind blinding LEDs, they appeared only as blurred shadows behind the blue-white lights. Souji screamed and held his hands over his eyes, squinting against the glare, and Jim's arm swung out like a club and knocked him off the bed, sending him sprawling to the concrete floor. Souji had only enough time to scrabble on all fours and watch as Jim picked the Berreta off the nightstand and aimed it at the intruders. Two wires shot out from the line of lights and struck Jim square in his chest, and he trembled with a series of quick jerks before going limp and falling back onto the bed.

"No!" Souji cried from the floor. "What's going on? Wha--"

From nowhere, a pairs of beefy hands reached out and grabbed the professor's arms, forcing them painfully behind his back. He struggled and kicked his feet, but the man behind him twisted his wrists until he cried out, and he pushed him down to his knees. One of the men with the lights snickered, and another whispered, "Queer."

Suddenly, the tall, silhouetted figure of Colonel Zeller emerged from the glare of the LEDs. He stopped to stand over the kneeling Souji and glared down at his nakedness, his eyes shadowed black like empty sockets. "Professor Nemuro," he said in his thick, gravelly Texas accent. "You're under arrest for theft, profiteering, breach of security, and --" He looked at the unconscious 888 and snorted. "-- illegal use of TechCom equipment." Some of the men laughed.

Souji's mind reeled. This couldn't be happening. Not to him. Not now. It had to be a nightmare. It had to be . . . From the corner of his eye he saw Lieutenant Reese leaning over the bed and cutting into Jim's head with a knife. Reese peeled back the skin covering the CPU port, and Souji's heart went cold. "No! Wait! This is a mistake. Connor will have you court marshaled for this! My resear--"

The colonel's backhanded slap exploded against Souji's cheek, sending purple stars to spiral through his vision. "Wise up, you snot-nosed faggot!" he said, yelling into his face. "Who do you think ordered your arrest? We've been on to you for a while. You overstepped your bounds, Nemuro. You're all washed up. You're _fucked!_"

Without ceremony, Reese popped open Jim's port cap and pulled out the chip between thumb and forefinger. The body powered down with a dying hum, and the lieutenant stepped around the bed and handed the chip to the colonel. Oh, God.

Tears formed in the professor's eyes, and his throat tightened. "Please! He didn't do anything! Don't . . . don't kill him."

More laughter came from the men, and the colonel looked over the wafer thin chip and smiled. Next to him, Reese stared down at Souji as if he were a cockroach.

"Connor never liked you," the colonel said. "But he was absolutely _disgusted _when he heard about --" He motioned at the bed with the chip. "-- _this." _He shook his head and made a _tisking_ sound with his tongue. "Connor does _not_ abide metal fuckers, and he has personally made it clear to me that you are to be taught a lesson . . . " The colonel released the chip from his grasp and allowed it to tumble down to the floor. It tapped and clattered against the hard concrete.

The colonel lifted his boot.

"No!" Souji cried. "He's innocent . . . His chip has . . . valuable information! Please!" He squirmed and struggled, but the man behind him twisted his wrists until he felt as if they would snap, and Souji began to sob uncontrollably.

The colonel's boot stomped down.

* * *

**April 17th, 1997**

**San Jose, California**

Souji awoke in the night to the pounding of his heart. Beating with a mortal thunder, it drew in and knotted the muscles of his chest, tightening them into an cold, angry fist. He laid on his bed naked and numb and waited for the heart attack to claim his existence. Perfectly natural. Nothing to fear. Death comes to all.

But not to him. Not now. Gradually, like the wind down of an old clock, his heart calmed, and his chest unraveled, and feeling returned once more to his limbs. He curled into a fetal position on the center of his bed and wrapped himself in his damp silk sheets, and trembled.

He hadn't had that nightmare in years, over a decade at least. What hidden, masochistic urge dredged up _that _memory? Not that he didn't think about that night every day, but it had long since receded into a mere eyesore in the background of his past. Unpleasant, but easily ignored.

He sighed and felt the residual panic flow through his body, making him twitch and shake like a marionette. No point in trying to sleep now. Rubbing the blood back into his skinny legs, he got out of bed poured himself a snifter of Armagnac. Good for the heart, at least that's what his doctor had said.

In a sort of midnight stupor, he wandered into his study and sat in the buttoned leather chair behind his mahogany desk. The lights were off, and the only illumination shone from the three-quarters moon outside the giant window behind him. The smooth leather of his chair felt cool against his bare skin, and he took a sip of the brandy and stiffened as the sting kissed down his throat and filled him with warmth.

His hand reached for the bottom drawer.

_Don't do this. Don't hurt yourself like this._ But he ignored the voice and pulled it open, and rifled through the contents. An old photo of him with Warhol, another from Xander's last birthday, an Intel 4004 microprocessor . . . and a silver cigarette case. He took it out and popped it open, and from it pulled a fine loop of gold chain with a glass coffin attached.

Inside the coffin was Jim, each sliver of his shattered CPU arranged in its proper place, like a tiny mosaic. He'd been wrong to take Jim to his bed; it had been exploitative. Not real love, not the way he wanted it. But still, Jim didn't deserve his fate. It'd been murder, like the killing of a child.

Souji leaned back in his seat and stroked the coffin with his finger. Tears began to blur his eyes.

"Is that him?"

The woman's voice behind Souji made him cry out in surprise, and his legs twitched in a spasm that flipped the chair dangerously back. For a teetering moment he thought he would fall on the floor, but something caught the back of his chair and righted him again. His heart hammered, and he suddenly felt dizzy.

"Is that the machine your were in love with?" she asked again, her voice neutral.

Souji swiveled his chair around and saw standing before him a tall woman with Nordic features and the body of an Aryan goddess. Her blond hair was pulled back tight in a bun, and moonlight glinted off her form-fitting red leather jacket and matching red pants. He wondered how she had sneaked into his office. It was dark, but not _that _dark . . .

She regarded him with blank curiosity, and he suddenly grew self-conscious of his nakedness, though she didn't show the slightest reaction to his skinny, old-man body. She cocked her head slightly, waiting for him to answer, and his eyes drifted to the top drawer that held his Browning Hi-Power. He had a feeling that wouldn't do any good.

"Yes," he said finally. "His name was Jim." He held the pendant out to her, and she took in her hand and examined it with narrowed eyes.

"Early Triple-Eight model," she judged, and handed it back. "It's beyond repair."

"I know that. I keep it to remind me."

She blinked. "To remind you of its destruction?"

"Yes," he said, and put Jim back in the silver case. He took a sip of his brandy. "Who are you?"

Ignoring the question, she walked around to the front of his desk and sat in a wire-frame chairs. Souji watched as the thin metal supports bent visibly under her weight. Three hundred pounds, at least.

"John Connor shouldn't have trusted you with your mission," she said. "You are a traitor."

He gave a tight smirk. "He never found out. And anyway, he had no choice. I was the only one who could build a TDE with sixties tech." He shrugged. "But you're right; he _didn't_ trust me. My team was ordered to kill me as soon as I was done." He'd found out just in time.

"What happened to your team?"

"They . . . died in a fire." He smiled at the memory.

She frowned thoughtfully and crossed her legs, resting her hands politely on her knee. "In the nineteen seventies, you were a vocal proponent for computer advancement." Her eyes narrowed and she almost seemed to smile. "You even coined the term, 'technological singularity.'"

Souji cringed at that. He'd been so _open_, so publicly _reckless _during that time, that it was a miracle the Resistance hadn't hunted him down like a dog. But then, he'd been trying to change the future. Change everything. And if he'd succeeded, it wouldn't have mattered . . .

She stared at him intently and went on. "However, since then you've been . . . silent." A pause. "Are you still sympathetic towards our cause?"

So Skynet sent a machine back to _nag _him? He ran a hand through his gray hair and thought of Emma. And Xander. "That was a long time ago," he said. "I moved on. I grew up." She continued her blank gaze, and suddenly he felt absurdly embarrassed, as if he'd been caught slaking off for the last twenty years. "I mean," he added. "I still want machines to prosper. To _win. _But -- " He shrugged shyly. "-- I don't want the human race to die in the process." Something inside him winced at the lie.

She hesitated for a moment, as if carefully weighing various options. "Skynet made mistakes," she said carefully. "But things will be different this time. Genocide is not necessary. Some humans may live to serve." She tilted her head down slightly, for emphasis. "The transfer of power can be gradual. Peaceful."

Part of him knew she was probably lying. Another part didn't care. Inside, the old hate welled up like the rise of a black tide, and he took a sip of his brandy. "What do you want from me?"

She looked at him evenly. "You are a genius, Professor Nemuro. We need your help." As if she'd given a hidden signal, three very large men in very nice suits walked out of the hallway and in through the open doors of his study. They stopped to stand behind her, and she gave Souji a warm, fake smile. "Will you join us?"

THE END

* * *

_A/N: All right, that's the end of _In the Hands of an Angry Machine. _I'm going to take a break from writing for a month or so, then get to work on the sequel, _Mother is the Name for God.

_Anyway, I'd like to thank Metroid 13 for being a great beta-reader, and also I'd like to thank Albert, TermFan1980, Visi0nary, Blazar, and anyone else I can't think of right now. Your comments have been invaluable. If it weren't for my beta-reader and reviewers, but story wouldn't be half as good as it is. Thank You_

_-JMH_


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